Her Prisoner
by InNeedOfInspiration
Summary: Steve wakes up after almost 70 years. But what if he was found by the Russians instead and ended up at the mercy of the KGB's most infamous assassin, Black Widow? AU where Natasha has never met Clint. Takes place right at the end of Captain America: The First Avenger
1. Prologue

**Author's note: New fanfic! Hope you'll like it!**

The radio goes dead. Sooner than he wanted it, depriving him of his last chance to tell Peggy about his feelings. But maybe it is for the best. He shouldn't have to burden her with such a heavy confession seconds before the inevitable.

As the plane takes the nosedive, the last thing Steve gets to see is the light blue sky around him. He wants to see, for the remainder of the time he has got left. The pale ice awaiting at the bottom comes closer and closer. Then everything goes dark.

Darkness again, but a different kind. A bright gloom. He can perceive the light under his closed eyelids. He can hear the familiar sound of traffic in the distance, feel the warm sunrays on his skin. He becomes aware of the thick mattress under him.

Another familiar sound. A radio, again. But another voice. Masculine, this time.

"_Workman up for the Phillies, now. Holding that big club down at the end. He sets, Chipman pitches. » _

Steve opens his eyes to an immaculate white ceiling. He wants to move and to his surprise, he can. No broken bone or injury to be noted. He lifts himself up to sit on the edge of the hospitable bed.

The baseball game commentary is still on.

The door opposite the bed opens and the slender figure of a woman dressed as an SSR agent step into the room. He pauses as he eyes her carefully.

She has the brightest red hair he has ever seen, her waves neatly brushed behind her ear.

She smiles at him warmly. She looks kind but self-assured.

"Good morning," she says. The texture of her slightly raucous voice is unique. "…or should I say, afternoon."

"Where am I?"

"In a recovery room in New York City," she answers with the same reassuring smile. "Can I get you something to eat?"

Steve concentrates on the baseball game again.

"_So the Dodgers are ahead eight to five. And Chipman knows one swing of the bat and this fella's capable of making it a brand new game." _

"Where am I, really?" he asks with growing suspicion.

Neither her smile, nor her confidence waver. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The game. It's from May 1941. I know because I was there."

The SSR agent — or whoever she is — does not flinch. She simply looks…disappointed.

"Captain Rogers. Let me bring you something to eat then we can talk."

The door behind her opens again and two armed men, dressed in a kind of uniform he has never seen before, walk in.

He takes a step back. He looks at the wall and realizes it looks very thin, almost like a cardboard. He dashes towards it and jumps through it. The other side is even more dumbfounding than what he has left behind. A big room, a giant screen —he understands his room was nothing more than a set.

Other armed agents barge in. He escapes, knocking a few out of his way.

All the walls are made of metal. It looks more like high security prison than a military hospital.

The men running after him are shouting in a language he grew accustomed with during his years at war. They aim their rifles at him but never shoot. He uses it as an advantage and comes to a frontal confrontation. He takes a gun and shoots at the soldiers behind him.

He eventually finds a door open, stairs going up to the roof. He can see the sunlight in the door frame, and his freedom along with it. He bursts through the door and halts with heavy breathing.

This is nothing like New York City. Only snow and mountains as far the eye can see.

He is trapped in the middle of nowhere.

The red-haired woman steps onto the roof. With unflinching determination, she raises her arm and reveals the gun she was hiding behind her back. She pulls the trigger twice before he even has time to respond. The two bullets infallibly hit the barrel of his firearm which flies out his grip.

"Stand down, Captain." She warns coldly.

"You can't keep me here."

She drops her gun and rips her skirt up. She looks up at him with a slight sneer.

He tries to run away — jump off the roof — and she leaps forward. She hangs on to his chest, propels herself around him, and clasps his arms around her thighs.

He feels a quick and stumble bite on his neck. The woman willingly opens her palm to show the syringe she is holding. Sudden weariness takes over him and everything turns dizzy.

He leans forward and she gently hops off him to land noiselessly on her paws. She benevolently holds his arm to slowly help him down.

"I'm sorry, Captain. You really should have taken on my offer to eat."

Armed agents get to the roof. She gives them orders in their language with a flawless accent. They obey her immediately.

She then leans over him and smiles.

"Welcome to Russia, Captain" she says.

His eyes close on her emerald green gaze.


	2. Chapter 1

The next day, Steve is kept locked up for endless hours with the sole company of an armed agent watching him with his forefinger laying on the trigger. A very silent armed agent.

Steve knows it is his punishment for his misdemeanor the day before.

Eventually, he hears the soft sound of heels reverberating along the hallway. The door opens and it is the woman with the bright red hair.

She looks different. Her hair is more loosely styled in a wavy bob. She is wearing an outfit belonging to a trend totally unknown to him: black denim trousers, with high leather boots and a masculine leather jacket, perfectly fit to her body figure.

She grins at Steve and, without detaching her gaze, instructs the guard in Russian to unshackle him then to leave the room. She waits to hear the door close behind her before acknowledging he is out.

Steve looks up at her.

"I am agent Romanoff," she begins. "I'm sorry our first encounter was so…abrupt," she begins.

"I think you're making a mistake on the person. I have no reason to be here."

She pouts slightly. "Captain Steven Grant Rogers. Born July 4th, 1918 in Brooklyn to the nurse Sarah and the soldier Joseph Rogers, confirmed killed in action during World War I. After multiple unsuccessful attempts, you finally enlist the army in 1942 thanks to Doctor Abraham Erskine from the Strategic Scientific Reserve into Project Rebirth in order to determine who could be the best candidate for his Super Soldier S—."

"That's enough," he says coolly.

"And I thank you for it. Your file is quite wordy." She smiles and comes closer. "And I would rather get straight to the real topic, Captain."

"Why are you keeping me here?" he asks.

"I assure you this isn't permanent. I just want to make sure that you are ready first."

"Ready for what?"

She bites her bottom lip. "You see, I'm very sorry for yesterday's little act. You have to excuse my men for their lack of expertise in baseball. This isn't exactly the national sport, here."

Her light tone fuels his frustration. And she knows it very well. "We were simply trying to make it easier for you, rather than rip the band-aid right away."

He stands up suddenly. "Enough games! Tell me what is going on."

Romanoff arches an eyebrow. "Anger is not the best foundation to build such an announcement on."

Fury takes over him and he pins her against the wall, clenching his forearm over her chest, just below her chin. "No more lies." His warm breathing is grazing her face.

The anger is setting his eyes on fire but he is actually begging for answers. Her pupils dive into his and see it, too.

The door bursts open and the guard is back in the room. She placidly gives him orders. Steve understands the word "stop".

"Captain Rogers," she starts with a calm but stern voice. "You saw what I am capable of yesterday. We're only in this position now because I have allowed it."

Her green eyes are steady and unwavering. "I want to tell you the truth but first, you need to show me that you are ready for it. We are being watched," she continued, pointing to a very camera surveillance device in the corner of the ceiling. "and your welfare is those people's priority." She gazes into his eyes again. "As it is mine."

He doesn't believe a word but he needs to know. This is his priority. He'd rather hear her truth than hear none.

His breathing goes at a slower pace and he slowly pulls his arm away. She does not move, not jumping on the opportunity to break free. Instead, she wordlessly commands him to go back to his seat. With the most serene facial expression. A face made of marble; beautiful and cold.

He sits on the chair again and she waits a few seconds before sitting across from him.

"You are a clever man," she says. "And it will not have escaped you that many things around here are off."

His pupils nervously sweep across the room. He thinks of the last thing he remembers.

"Did it work?" he can't help but ask with growing anguish. "The plan. Did I manage to keep the civilians safe?"

Agent Romanoff pauses for a short moment, as a sudden surge of amazement goes across her face. She smiles earnestly.

"Yes, Captain. You saved everyone." Her voice is genuinely reassuring. "And your story has become one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice. To this day."

After relief, perplexity follows. "Then how am I here?"

She lays her forearms on the table. "The Serum kept you alive. And the ice, it preserved you. You've been asleep Cap…for almost 70 years." She pauses to let the news sink in. "Until we found you a week ago."

He instinctively looks down at his hands, at his flesh, still young and soft; at his veins throbbing lightly underneath. "That's impossible," he says. "You're lying."

"I've brought proof."

She pulls a small gadget out of her back pocket. A rectangular glass screen. He is not sure what do with it.

She presses her finger on it and the screen goes on. She presses it a few more times to a blank page.

"This is all very complicated and I'll explain it all to you in time. But this store an unimaginable amount of data. You can research anything you want."

She pulls it closer to him and quietly invites him to take it and make use of it.

After many searches that led to thousands of pictures of futuristic skylines, advanced technology, and groundbreaking facts, he hands the device back to her.

"I'm sorry, Captain. I know it is an emotional shock and I do not expect you to believe it at first."

"And what am I doing _here_?" he asks.

She stands up and starts toward the door. "That is a truth that can wait tomorrow. Someone will bring you your meal very shortly."

"So I'm your prisoner?" he says harshly.

She turns around. "You're my guest. And a guest of honor at that. Disobey me and yes, I guess you could call yourself that."

The guard steps back inside and she gives him instructions. He does not understand them but he notices two things: the guard does not shackle him again and he guards the room from outside.


	3. Chapter 2

Romanoff has just entered the room as it has been part of her daily routine for the past three weeks.

Things have been the same except for the room. The room has changed. He was moved to a more spacious one converted into a fully furnished bedroom. A room comfortable in appearance which allows him to roam at ease, but in reality a larger cage which incessantly reminds him of his condition. The bed is large and there is a large collection of books of all types for him to catch up with the new time and in which his mind at times succeeds to escape into.

The guard outside the door is still there, however.

She walks up to the table where they have their daily meeting. He comes up to meet her, something he does less and less reluctantly as the days go by. Not by choice, but by habit. Like an animal slowly trained into coercion.

She opens the box, takes the pawns out and mechanically sets them on the board.

"You know it took some digging to find this chessboard in order to satisfy your request. They no longer."

His surprise shows; she welcomes it with a subtle smirk. It seems Romanoff has made her running joke of his out-of-his-time condition.

After the third day, he completely shut down and remained impermeable to her attempts to start conversations. He was the one who eventually mentioned the chessboard. The rules established are simple: whoever is playing can ask a question.

"When I am getting out?" he asks, after moving his first pawn.

"It all depends on you. In the meantime, you can enjoy the comfort of your room."

"My cell," he corrects her.

"A cell with a breathtaking view," she chimes in. She is calm and focused on the game.

He glances at the wide window, half the length of the wall, facing the range of high mountains across.

"And unbreakable glass," he finishes aloud as he moves another pawn.

Romanoff smirks. "Oh, so you checked? Naughty."

He eyes her with coy distance. She remains imperturbable. He knows this remark will not travel to any other ear. It's her secret. Their secret. They have made a few of those over the past weeks. Romanoff is methodical in everything she does, and in her interrogations, particularly. She only keeps what is valuable. When she catches something important, she clenches it and makes it hers. The other insignificant details are left off the path. They aren't of any use to her.

That was one of those.

"I want to leave. I should be free to leave. But you treat me like a guinea pig," he spits bitterly. "That blood test I get once a week, I doubt it's for a courtesy check-up."

Natasha doesn't answer, plays in silence and skips her turn.

"I don't belong here," he goes on. "I should be home."

"Where's home, though?" she says. "You've been away 70 years and I don't need to state the obvious regarding your friends and all the people you've ever known."

It is the truth still painful to bear. He has barely beginning to grieve Bucky when he found out he had lost everyone else, too.

"So I should stay in Russia?" he retorts.

She cocks an eyebrow. "You know, you are quite narrow-minded for someone who's missed the whole Cold War section. You could do great things here, too." She pauses and leans in closer. "I'm sorry, you know, sorry that people you thought to be your friends gave up on you so easily after the crash. We may not be perfect but we never leave a companion behind — no matter what. That's what we do; we don't give up on each other."

He clenches his fist under the table, then sweeps all the pawns off the board. He doesn't know if he's more upset about how she misjudges his friends or how her slanders affect him regardless.

"Go away," he mutters.

"Rogers," she begins.

"GO AWAY."

She stands up without a word and leaves him in his abysmal solitude. Part of him doesn't want her gone.

Some days are good, some days are not.

Today, he hates her.

"I know people like you, Romanoff," he says without taking his eyes off of the table, a couple of days later "I've met plenty of your kind."

She slowly walks up to the table, across from him. The chessboard is ready and has been awaiting her. His pawn is already engaged — Romanoff lets him be White (or at least, she always goes for Black).

"You've never met anyone like me," she purrs confidently, moving her pawn. The tone of her voice oozes gravity, and becomes slightly foreboding. Not for long, though, just enough to get her point across.

"Is it a threat?" he asks, looking her in the eye.

"It's a promise," she assures. She then crosses her arms over her chest and leans back on the chair. "Have you thought about my proposition?"

She kept her word indeed and told him the next day what he is here for. They want him to fight for them.

"The answer hasn't changed since yesterday, and the day before. And the day before," he says coolly. His knight jumps to the right.

He instinctively feels the presence of the camera surveillance in the room. His eyes glance up in its direction.

"I brought you something," she says. She calls out in Russian. The door opens and an agent walks in with a cumbersome package wrapped in taffeta. He puts it on the table and steps away in a corner of the room.

Steve's eyes widen. He doesn't need to see it to recognize the shape. His hand instinctively reaches up to touch it. He pulls the fabric away to feel the cold metal under his palm.

He suddenly gets hopeful. "Did you…did you find something else?" he murmurs. The crook of his hand begins to ache for the compass it used to enclose. It takes the shape it took so many times in the past.

Romanoff notices then frowns. "I'm afraid I don't understand." And she reads disappointment — the bitter taste of lost hope, on his face.

"As you can see, your shield is intact." She continues then speaks in a lower voice, moving her queen forward. "It could be yours to use; it's always been yours."

"No," he finally speaks. "You won't manipulate me so easily."

"You don't want to fight, Captain?" She makes her bishop glide across the board.

"Not for you," he answers after mustering all of his contempt, as he traps the bishop with one of his rooks.

"You don't want to stop the oppressors? _I don't like bullies. I don't care where they're from. _What became of it?" she asks. She notices how his body stiffens at the sound of his own quote. "Don't you want to protect those who need it? Don't you want to bring them justice?"

"Not your justice. Not without knowing the real motives behind it."

"Because you think the country you fought had no agenda. All the regimes are the same, Captain Rogers. They all serve their own agendas. Nobody is better. Check."

"So you found it simple to get rid of your conscience along the way?" he asks her, placing the rook in her way.

She eyes him closely. "I do my job, and my job is to follow orders. You should easily understand this, _Captain_. Check." She has just taken his rook.

"But not like a puppet. Or we're not any better than a bunch of machines. I followed orders but only when I trusted them to be the right thing to do."

"Well, freedom is a luxury that can come at a steep cost, around here. Check." Her voice is quite stern and he has just lost his queen.

"Look," she says, quietly. "Those men outside, watching us, they don't see what I see. They see a prodigious scientific advance. I see a war hero. The world never forgot about you, Steve. People grew up learning about you. You're in everyone's memory. You were the First Avenger. Sitting across from you right now, this is who I see. You could become all this again, live up to your own heritage."

He eyes her closely. He knows he shouldn't listen to a word she says. She's manipulating him but with a truth, he values far too much to look away from it. She toys with his principles like a spider with its prey. And he can't look away — he is in her trap already.

"You could make a difference, here. Put aside the country's agendas — my superiors' agendas — and do what's right for the people who need your help. Can't you be their Captain, too?"

His knight makes the difference. "Checkmate," he says inaudibly.

Romanoff tips her king over. She gets up and goes to the door, closely followed by the guard, leaving the shield behind her without giving it a glance. She doesn't treat it like her property but, on the contrary, ensures to keep away like it is his.

He looks at her resignedly as she steps out.

A man is waiting outside: the Colonel. A man Steve has had the occasion to meet a few times; a man he doesn't really like. Romanoff stands before him diligently.

"How much longer before you convince him?" he asks, coldly.

Her eyes instinctively flicker towards the door.

"I just did."


	4. Chapter 3

Training began shortly after their last chess game. Three or four times a week, he is escorted to the training room where he goes through a serious of various workouts, from new hand-to-hand combat techniques to live fire exercise with modern weaponry.

Romanoff is always there to supervise. And the Colonel comes from time to time both to gauge the promptness of the training and not to let his presence be forgotten.

Although it is just trading a cage for another, those afternoons have soon become a time when Steve can let off steam. How many times did he strike the punching bag till it would break open thinking about his captivity? He generally sends the bag flying farther away when he punches thinking about his past life. This would forever remain his greatest pain.

"How are you sleeping, Cap?" Romanoff once asks him as she stood beside the punching bag.

He feigns not understanding and keeps on punching. He always trains till physical exhaustion. And for the first time since waking up in the new millennium, he had a full night sleep.

"There is this thing called PTSD that veterans, or anyone else for that matter, can suffer from. You've been through a lot and it would be ludicrous to think it could not concern you."

"I read about it," he answers. He once found a book about it in his personal library.

She nods slowly. "So you know, PTSD or not, how sleep can become a tedious chore. Staring for hours at the blank ceiling, watching the moon rays dance across as your mind is being assaulted by restless memories."

He halts and looks at her. He can tell she has been there, too. "It's happened to you, too?"

She furtively looks away then back at him. "Yes. I wish—," she interrupts herself abruptly. She probes him for a little while, gauging whether she should finish her sentence or not. "I wish I hadn't gone through this alone. If you have one of those nights, you can ask the guard to come and get me. I'll keep you company."

He holds the bag steady. He is not sure to understand the motive behind her proposition. "What makes you think I would want you to be the person to be here with me if it happens?"

Her pupils search into his. "Because I'm all you've got," she says matter-of-factly. "And because when it comes to insomnia, I know that any company is better than no company."

She gives him a silent nod and walks off promptly. Part of him blames himself for being so harsh, and it is immediately followed by another part of him cursing him for blaming himself.

"Romanoff," he calls softly. Somehow, he hopes it is low enough for her not to hear it.

She turns around to look at him. "Thanks," he says.

The corner of her mouth rises very slightly and she goes away.

When Steve resumes hitting the bag, he punches it hard, sighing at himself. He must be the first idiot to ever thank his offender.

* * *

At the end of his second week of training, Romanoff leans the ropes of the ring with great nonchalance. Steve notices she is wearing the workout gear. She sends away the agent sparring with him with a simple nod.

"Want to fight me, Rogers?" she propositioned suavely. She tilts her head and arches an eyebrow. "Come on, we both know you've been dying to give me a sound thrashing."

He shakes his head and looks away from her tantalizing expression as he represses the amusement threatening to burst out. "That's not entirely…untrue," he trails off with a smirk.

She frowns. "What was that?" she exclaims with utter surprise. "Were those your teeth? And was that humor?"

"You certainly know how to be subtle about it," he comments.

"I'm nipping it in the bud before you begin to spiral into merriment."

He rolls his eyes, something he hasn't done since 1944.

She holds on the ropes and jumps over them, into the ring.

"Are you ready?" she says, adjusting the bandages wrapped around her palms.

He frowns, feeling an irrational upsurge of panic. "I'm not going to fight you," he says.

She puts a hand up to her hip. "Rogers, I'm gonna need you to cut out that outdated gallantry and try to beat the crap out of me, instead."

He begins to look for Dimitri, the agent she just sent away. Dimitri is in his early twenties and he's a nice kid. Their sparring sessions are the occasion for him to practice his English. And he admitted just the day before having some authentic collection cards of him. Steve suspects he will soon ask him to sign them. At least, when he musters the courage to do it.

"Forget about Dimitri," she reads his thoughts. "He doesn't have enough experience and he pulls his punches with you."

"Because you won't?" he asks.

She smiles deviously. "Exactly."

Steve is nervous. He's never fought a woman before, and funnily enough, he doesn't want Romanoff to be the first one. Maybe he would find it easier if it were someone he didn't spend so much with; or if it were someone he abhorred. He does not abhor Romanoff and it is a problem in itself.

"Don't worry," she says. "You won't hurt me."

He is about to protest but she runs at him. He dodges her and she goes past him. She flips around.

She attacks again but he cautiously captures her first in his hand. "I don't want to fight you."

She rolls her eyes. She bounces and clasps her legs around his torso and the back of his neck before throwing him forward to the ground.

"It would be far more satisfying if you actually showed some resistance," she breathes out, her face a few inches above his head.

"Give me time," he manages to say under her. She lifts her leg to release him.

He gets up. "How did you learn to fight like this?" He has never seen any woman (not even Peggy), — or anyone — use such combat skills.

"I did ballet," she answers matter-of-factly.

He opens his mouth, puzzled, but she attacks again before he can say anything.

After many efforts, he finally cedes and fights back. The sparring is very successful; it seems he learns to adjust to her fighting techniques. Soon, he could anticipate her next move.

He eventually takes control, and as they both to the ground, he reverses the positions and winds up on top of her.

"Are you hurt, yet?" he asks as she is catching her breath.

She smirks.

"That's very impressive, Captain." A voice calls behind them with a thick Russian accent.

Both stiffen and get to their feet. The Colonel is standing by the ropes, just where Romanoff was a while ago. He is smiling but the smile does reach his eyes. His thick features and his square jaw give him a hard expression.

"Are you ready to get back in the field?" he asks.

"It's not like I really have a choice," he answers coolly.

The Colonel sniggers then motions Romanoff to come over. She slips between the ropes and they begin talking in Russian.

Steve can't help but notice that her demeanor has completely changed. Around the Colonel, she is the Black Widow; she is meek and obedient.

He tries to decipher but he barely understands two or three words. The Colonel's voice is firm and inflexible.

He is finishing to give his instructions and Steve catches something.

"Da, Papa," Romanoff says before saluting him with a nod and leaving the room.

This one doesn't need translation.


	5. Chapter 4

Romanoff has been missing for several days, and as much as Steve shouldn't care about her absence, it doesn't leave him indifferent either. He wouldn't go as far as saying that he misses her, but he could admit that the past few days have been a little heavier. Greyer. Duller. He has never felt more trapped than at this moment and he can now see how her presence did help to alleviate his solitude.

His eyes often look up expectantly at the door when he hears someone approaching on the other side. He does it again today. The door opens and he's already picturing her feline silhouette entering the room. Except it isn't her.

"Good afternoon, Captain." The voice calls sheepishly.

"Hello, Dimitri." Steve's muscles relax as he settles back in his seat.

"I hope I am not interrupting you, Captain," the young agent says with a thick Russian accent.

Steve closes the book he was reading and purses his lips. "No. I have all the time in the world now. Too much time."

"I thought I could keep you company like agent Romanoff does."

Steve probes him quietly. He doesn't know whether he should appreciate the young man's gesture or be offended to be seen as a puppet that needs distraction whilst the one in charge of entertaining him is away.

"It's all right," he says. But Dimitri is already seated at the table with a shy smile on, wordlessly begging him to accept his invitation. "Please, Captain. It would give me a chance to practice my English."

Steve watches him then nods. Dimitri isn't the worst company to have after all. The young man nervously runs a hand in his light blonde hair then smiles upon seeing Steve's approving nod.

"Agent Romanoff will be back soon. Tomorrow." Steve shrugs nonchalantly without a word. Tomorrow isn't so far away.

"What is she doing?" he asks coolly.

Dimitri shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I can't say." His eyes nervously dread his reaction. "I don't know myself," he promptly adds.

He reaches towards the end of the table. "I reckon you two usually play chess. I can do it."

Steve's chest stiffens. He instinctively leans in and pushes the untouched board farther away. Playing chess is heir thing. It is silly — he knows it — but he doesn't want to play with anyone else.

Dimitri sits back and stares awkwardly, like a child who would have been grounded without really knowing what he has done wrong.

"How old are you?" Steve asks, changing topic.

"22 years old."

It suddenly strikes Steve that his features are indeed younger than he had gaged.

"What made you want to join the army?"

"I…I wanted to serve my country and be a hero," he lowers his voice. "Like you."

"I don't think you're supposed to be telling me that. If somebody knew…"

"Agent Romanoff does," he defends.

Steve arches an eyebrow. "And what does she think about it?"

"She assigned me, here. She trusted me to attend to my duty diligently."

"How long have you two known each other?"

"Quite some time. She trained me. Everything I learned, I owe it to her."

"Sounds like strong devotion," Steve comments.

"Not devotion," Dimitri asserts matter-of-factly. "Admiration."

Steve remains silent.

"So what would you like to do?" the soldier asks.

"I guess we could start with those cards you've been wanting to show me."

Dimitri beams with anticipation. "Only because you've asked, Captain."

He smiles at the comment.

The next day, Romanoff is back indeed; they're playing chess. Oddly, it seems his routine has fallen back to normal. As difficult as it was to admit at first, Romanoff has become, over time, a full and legitimate part of it.

As he watches her think about her next move, a question is gnawing away at him.

"The Colonel," he begins. "Is he your father?"

Her face remains imperturbable, not detaching her eyes from the chessboard. "He's the closest I've got to one," she answers as she pinches a pawn between her fingers and glides it across the board, back to her side.

His sympathetic gaze falls on her — he wonders if she feels it.

"What happened?" he asks quietly. The question is invasive, but he is hoping their contrived togetherness has evolved into unopposed proximity.

"He spared me from orphanage life, entered me in the most prestigious ballerina school of Saint-Petersburg. Then he made me who I am."

Her eyes look up to meet his. He wants to say he's sorry but he can say these are words she will not take.

An agent walks into the room and addresses her in Russian. She answers concisely then turns to him with an unwavering look.

"Time to suit up, Cap."

He feels a knot in his stomach.

Steve, Romanoff and a half a dozen agents are in the back of the truck. His hands have a firm grip on his knees. He hasn't said a word since they left his room. When he looks up, he notices she is staring at him, a small smirk playing on her lips. He wishes he knew her thoughts but Romanoff is a hard person to read. He finds it both unsettling and enthralling. Insidious, without a doubt.

She opens the metal box lying at her feet. There is his shield. She invites to take it with a glance. He takes it in his hands and he feels whole again. It seems he can finally begin to perceive his life has a purpose again.

Romanoff receives a message through her monitor and the truck stops a moment later. The agents open the doors and the bright rays of sun hit him in the face; he smells the frosty air. He hops down the truck and his boots crunch in the immaculate snow. They are joined by eight other agents from the truck behind.

"You gotta admit that if there is only one good thing to come out of your situation, it is the new suit," Romanoff states teasingly.

His onyx stealth suit is diametrically opposed to his former suit. The stars have gone, and so has the patriotically charged blue. For the rest, besides having a more modern cut and shape, it feels reassuringly familiar: the boots, the gloves and the helmet fit him like they have always belonged to him.

"I guess we can call it Silver Lining Number 1."

"Oh, so you open to the idea of getting more?" she remarks with a cocked eyebrow.

She reaches for the firearm at her hip and loads it. She instructs her men to follow her as they both take the lead.

The mission, for as much as he has been told, is to neutralize leader of an unofficial militia and his men who are hiding in a farm 400 yards South.

Hiding in the woods at a close distance to the propriety, all are waiting.

"Any sign of civilians inside?" Steve asks.

"Not according to our intel," she answers.

He looks in the barn's direction then at the house windows. The worn paint of the modest house blends in the scenery.

"I doubt they're in the barn. The house offers a better vantage point from the higher windows and many places to hide."

Romanoff agrees with a nod. She sends five men to the barn and instructs the remaining to spread to the many entrances, keeping the main one for her, Steve and four other agents.

With soundless steps, they run to the house. She opens the door without noise and they step inside. There is a musty smell. Two agents split from the group to explore the rooms down the hall while they check the rooms by the entrance. There is a dead man in the kitchen. He's been here for at least 12 hours.

Then they step out of the living-room. Still no trace of the militiamen. One of the agents makes the wooden floor creak under his shoo. Running steps rumble on the upper floors.

Shootings erupt and Romanoff jumps out of the way whilst Steve raises his shield.

She calls her men in Russian via the transmitter but the echo of shooting come from outside, too.

"It's an ambush," she tells Steve.

He runs up the stairs to stop and jumps over the wooden rail to take his opponent by surprise. He knocks him but another man appears out of the corner. Black Widow bounces in, slides between the criminal's legs and fractures one of his ankles with a kick. He loses his balance and she traps him between her legs before pressing her elbow against his throat.

The hall goes silent and their eye flicker in each other's direction for a second. They hear a sound in one of the rooms. They burst in to find a man straddling the window. His arms jerks up and he jumps down. They look at the object he has just thrown: a grenade.

Romanoff holds her breath and takes a step back. Steve jumps forward behind her and shields her. The grenade explodes and the blast shoots them out of the room. They both fall heavily on the ground and she is coughing out the smoke.

"You okay?" he asks, but shooting pierces through the door down the hall. She runs to it and stands behind the wall. The shooting stops, indicating the magazine of the rifle is empty. She bursts in before he can load it again. She pulls the trigger and her bullet flies straight between the militiaman's eyes. Another man, much younger, is standing in the corner of the room. He has dropped his rifle down and has his hands up.

Her body pivots in his direction and she aims at him. Steve jumps in and jerks her arm up just when she pulls the trigger; the bullet hits the ceiling. She shoots him a cold look.

"He has surrendered!" he shouts at her. Black Widow eyes him without a word.

Then her agents loudly call from the staircase and soon step into the room. They all raise their rifles at the criminal and ask for her orders.

She is looking at the criminal and Steve is looking at her. Her agents ask for her orders again. She answers to arrest him.

A muffled sound comes from the floor above. Romanoff climbs the stairs. She slowly opens the door with her loaded gun.

A small silhouette steps out of the dark corner. Romanoff is staring with a frozen expression; her eyes are hollow. A little girl — she could barely be seven or eight. Her face is pale as she stands in a long flowery dress. Romanoff puts the gun in the case behind her back and her persona switches up completely. Steve watches as she kneels on the wooden floor and calls the little girl in Russian. She smiles at her but her smile is dull — sad.

The little girl is meek and guarded. She cautiously eyes with a frightened. Romanoff stretches her arm out to her. She speaks with her in a soothing and benevolent voice. Steve is mute and doesn't dare interrupt this moment. He is seeing her like he never has before.

"Don't be afraid," he understands.

The little girl takes small steps towards her. Romanoff gently cups her little hand into her palm. She speaks again then gently brushes her hand down her hair.

The little girl nods and Romanoff holds her in her arms before scooping her up the floor. She buries the girl's head into the crook of her neck to hide their surroundings and she takes her down the floor. Romanoff dismisses all her agents' questions and she heads out of the house.

Romanoff disappeared for the rest of the day but it doesn't matter: for the first time, without the shadow of a doubt, he saw Natasha.


	6. Chapter 5

**Author's note:** sorry for the repost. It was the wrong story. lol

* * *

Sitting on the edge of his bed in the penumbra, Steve is pensively gazing out of the window. It is one of those nights he cannot find sleep. He wonders when he will ever be free to leave and how long he will be used for. Beyond the change of millennium, he suffers from the burdening impression that he does not belong there. He is not really sure to know where he belongs anymore, but he knows for with certainty that this is the last place on Earth where he should be.

The quiet sound of the door opening behind him pulls him of his swarming thoughts. He frowns at the unexpected sight in the room. Romanoff is watching him intently.

"I suspected you wouldn't be asleep," she says.

"Did you get from the security camera?" he asks half-bitterly.

She doesn't glance at it. "I don't need to take a look at a monitor to know how you'd feel tonight."

"How am I feeling tonight?" he questions.

Her expression is calm. "You fought for people you know nothing about and you don't trust — it's unsettling."

She opens the door and slightly tilts her head. "Come on," she calls gently. "Let's get some fresh air."

He is both hopeful and dubious. "What are they gonna say?" he trails off.

"It was my call," she affirms and reaches for the door handle.

He gets up, his feet answering to the call of some stretching, and grabs his hoodie as he heads towards the door.

Romanoff takes him to the lift, all the way up to the rooftop — the very rooftop where he first attempted to escape from before she stopped him. It is a starry night. He hasn't seen so many stars since his last hike with Bucky in 1939.

Romanoff goes to lean on the ledge; he doesn't, immediately. First, he takes a few steps around. She takes a look at her surroundings, as a way of allowing him some privacy.

It doesn't take him long to realize that this rooftop is a dead end and gives him confirmation that the building is completely secluded him. He could be many days away from the nearest village.

She probably knows that and he reckons this is why she took him up here without any fear of him trying to run away.

"Why did you take me up here?" he asks, anger rising. "Is it my reward for complying today?"

"Is that what you think it is?" she says.

He shakes his head — he finds the whole situation very confusing. "I don't know what to think. I don't know anything about you. And the little I know might as well be a lie. How do I know this little jailbreak isn't an umpteenth ploy to make me yield more?"

She gazes without a word and this silence pulls him further down the quicksand he is trapped in.

"I'd like to tell you that it isn't a ploy but you wouldn't believe me."

"Then help me believe you," he says. "Tell me something about you. Something true."

She looks at him in slight bewilderment. "I haven't been asked this for so long that I forgot how to talk about me."

He reiterates his request with a nod.

A gust of wind barges in on them. She squeezes the collar of her coat tight between her thing fingers then turns around to prop her elbows on the ledge. "Would you believe it if I said that I hate the cold?" she begins musingly. "It's kind of ironic for a Russian."

He comes to lean on the ledge too and he looks at her. She's staring into the night but her eyes seem to have traveled miles from here. "The cold is particularly vicious in the tundra. They have the roughest winter there. It falls quick and hard, and settles in for what seems an eternity. My parents…well, let's say that the years that preceded the collapse of the Soviet Union were particularly bloody. Criminals took advantage of the political and social instability to create havoc. One of them made it to our house. That's how my parents died. I escaped, running as fast as I could. I roamed across the tundra for days." She pauses and bits her bottom lip. "And then the cold came on. Like I said, quick and hard. But I kept walking in the snow. It took nearly three more days before I was found."

The puzzle is getting whole.

"Colonel Petranov," Steve murmurs.

"He had come hunting. He brought me to his house and took care of me. He saved my feet and then he made me a ballerina. I danced in many schools across the world and traveled to many countries, including the US."

"He made you enter the Black Widow program."

She nods and he can the profound gratitude in her slightly watery eyes. "He did what was best for me."

He looks at her but he sees the stray little girl in her worn shoes. He has never seen her so vulnerable. His resentment towards the Colonel sharpens, takes a proper shape. It is not so abstract anymore.

She takes her eyes off of the scenery and looks up at him. A small grin at the corner of her mouth appears. "Can I trust you with this?"

"Of course," he promises solemnly. She seems to take his grave tone with some amusement.

"And you, Rogers. May I ask what made you fight for us, today?"

"Apart from the fact that I didn't really have a choice?"

She smirks.

"You fought like you wanted to," she remarks. "Where did that come from?"

He reflects on her words. "You were right."

Romanoff seems surprised by this blunt confession. "I shouldn't just be one country's Captain. The people in that farm, they deserved saving. That's who I fought for, today."

"I thought you were afraid to serve some government's agenda?"

"I still am," he answers matter-of-factly. "But I recalled what someone I care about once told me: there is no wrong battle if you fight for the right reasons. I've always tried to live by that."

Romanoff nods. "Did she love you back?" she asks.

He lets out a slightly scandalized sound. "Who said it was a woman?"

She smiles. "That was pretty easy to figure out. Were you together?"

He wants to protest but she cuts him off with one of her nonchalant, indisputable arguments. "You can't refuse to answer this question after I've told you about my past?"

He sighs and leans over the ledge, too. "She was my superior and I lost time. I shouldn't hold on to her but after losing Bucky, she is the only thing I've got left from my past life."

"I get it," she says softly then she lets the conversation die away peacefully.

During those seconds, he realizes this is the most honest and meaningful discussion he has ever had with Romanoff. And ironically, it is also the longest he has ever had with a woman. He suddenly recalls his past self, complaining to Peggy about never having had a proper conversation with a female. That was until Peggy. And now until Natasha. Counting all their chess games chats and tonight's talk, he finds highly ironic that the woman he has spent the longest time with is her captor.

"The militia leader," he asks. "Was he among the men we caught?"

"No. He had probably left the place a few hours before we got there."

"And the girl? How is she doing?"

Her face gets veiled with an unfathomable expression. It is grave and stern.

"They killed her face and she spent more than 24 hours hiding under the bed in the room where we found her." She shrugs him sadly. "And her mother died many years ago. She was all alone."

She bears the last words with heavy familiarity. He nods in silence. He wants to ask more but he can feel it is a sensitive topic for her, and Natasha Romanoff doesn't do sensitivity.

"I did what was best for her," she goes on much to his surprise. "I made sure to find her a foster family." She pauses. "She's safe now." She hammers the words as if to convince herself.

He gets pensive. "Safe from the Colonel?" he says.

"No, no." She shakes her head. "Safe from this life. Not everyone is cut out for it."

He does not really believe it but he wonders if she even believes it herself. Natasha is quiet but she seems tormented, thoughtful over the little's girl future.

"You saved her…Romanoff."

She props herself up and looks him in the eye, silently thanking him for putting her mind at ease. Then her expression changes. It grows more stern.

"And you saved me today," she utters with most gravity. "I owe you."

Steve frowns; he isn't sure to understand what she means by owing him. She watches him intently. "If it was the other way around, and it was down to me — and be honest with me — would you trust me to do it?"

Her tone is serious and expectant. He wants to speak but realizes he doesn't know what to answer. Maybe in other circumstances — in another life — this question would have been easier to answer. But in this reality — his reality — it isn't.

Be honest, she said.

"No," he answers truthfully. "I wouldn't." It seems he catches a glimpse of disappointment pass across her face. "You obey orders. And as much as you would want to save me, I believe you'd put your duty before anything else if it was on the line."

She is at a loss of words, completely mute like he has just snatched her tongue out. Her pupils are quivering, seeking an answer. "Maybe I wouldn't this time," she assures earnestly.

"Then prove it and let me out," he says.

She halts and her eyes widen. She grows anxious as the words come out of her mouth. "I can't do this," she says quietly.

"You could if you really wanted to," he answers firmly. "You know I don't belong here. Let me go."

She looks all around them, somewhat distressed like a robot unable to compute two contradictory information. "I can't. I'm sorry," she murmurs and her voice slightly breaks.

"Then it looks like my guts were right," he says bitterly. He knows he shouldn't put all the blame of his servitude on her but he is also angry that part of him was almost willing to believe her. "Take me back to my room," he speaks coldly. "And no need to come for chess tomorrow."

Romanoff silently takes in his sanction; she looks saddened although he can't really understand over what. However, he wonders if she suspects that part of his anger is fueled by the disenchantment of watching tonight's meaningful conversation fade into dust before him.


	7. Chapter 6

A couple of days later, Romanoff is back — after knocking and asking if she was welcome. But soon, their chess game is interrupted by an impromptu visit.

Colonel Petranov appears at the door with a wide and disquieting smile. Romanoff did not seem to have expected his visit either. She stands up and goes to sit in the armchair in the corner of the room and crosses her legs.

"Captain, you have nearly been with us for three months," the Colonel starts, walking up to him. "And, eager to be a good host, I have made not to leave any of your needs unfulfilled. And one of the reasons I came here today was to thank you in person for your first successful mission with us."

He pulls the chair Romanoff has just given up for him to sit next to Steve. He leans in to feign some kind of companionable bond between them. He adds in a lower voice: "it has recently hit me that I may have failed at my duty and not have fulfilled _all_ of your needs."

He smirks, puzzlingly. He then turns towards the door and calls out in Russian. The door opens from outside, held by an agent. A slender and lithe silhouette steps into the room with the clicking sound of high heels on the floor.

Steve frowns and looks at her. The young woman, with long and bright blonde falling straight over her shoulders and framing a sharp and delicate jaw, stands obediently in the middle of the room in a navy, and noticeably too thin layered for the season, raincoat and black tights.

"Look at her, Captain. A true gem, isn't she?" the Colonel erupts enviously. "Our country can boast from having quite gorgeous such as the one standing here. I'm sure you've never seen women like this in America?" She has the brightest blue eyes he has ever seen, and her full lips are slightly more colored than her sharp cheekbones. "An ethereal beauty."

He looks over at Romanoff in perplexity. She is watching the girl with an unreadable expression, silent. He wonders if she knew about this, although he doesn't dare what 'this' is.

The Colonel firmly gives the girl instructions. She meekly unbuttons her coat, takes it off and drops it on the nearest chair. She is wearing a close-fitted, off shoulder red dress that immediately brings her cheeks more color.

She smiles. "Hello, Captain. Me name eez Irina," she says.

"Her English isn't so good but I'm sure she'll be willing to be some useful words," the Colonel says then loudly snorts at his saucy joke. Steve shoots him a look of pure disdain. Petranov doesn't seem to notice and presses his hand on his shoulder. "If you're a little shy, I can have the surveillance camera turned off for the next couple of hours."

Romanoff uncrosses her legs. Steve's gaze falls on her like an activated magnet. It follows her as she gets up and walks quietly to the door without a glance at anyone. She brushes past the woman like she does not exist and reaches for the door handle. She then opens it and soon disappears.

But Steve's eyes are still on the door, looking at where she was just a moment ago.

"Unless, your fantasies are always filled with _another_ woman," the Colonel purrs. He has a salacious smile. He whispers again, "just say it, and I shall try to have a word with her about it."

His look of disdain has evolved into one of pure hatred. It has become sharper, and it has taken a shape. It has stopped being just abstract. Listening to him trying to sell her out like merchandise after raising her like a daughter fills him with disgust.

"I am not interested," he answers coolly.

The Colonel smirks and squeezes his shoulder. He lightly slaps his hands over his lap and stands up.

"Well, Irina is here for two hours. Feel free to enjoy her company as it pleases you. I don't know," he begins then trails off and picks one of the chess pieces between his fingers. "Maybe some chess?"

He sniggers and walks over to the door, ogling the girl like a tempting piece of meat, then leaves the room.

She smiles at him and waits obediently.

The next day, he is expecting Romanoff. She comes at the usual time and sits at the table. Both are quiet, muted by the memory of the awkward moment from the day before, although she does not bear the same stern expression as him.

He cannot talk to her. He feels humiliated. And he doesn't dare to ask. He wonders if she knew about it; even worse, he dreads to wonder whether she approved of it or was the one to suggest it. Eventually, the need to know takes over.

"Did you know about it?" he asks bitterly.

Romanoff looks him straight in the eye.

"He mentioned it a few days ago but I spoke against it," she answers.

She is calm but earnest. He searches in her eyes for some hint of dishonesty but does not find any. It somehow relieves him to know she wasn't in on it.

"So, how did things go with I_r_ina?" she takes on the girl's accent and roll the 'r'. He takes it as her attempt to lighten the mood. "You know, I must admit —although I kind of expected it— I was amazed to see how you categorically turned it down. Many would have jumped on the occasion. It seems like your outmoded gallantry dies hard."

He rolls his eyes. "If you're here to make fun of me, do it quickly and leave."

She smirks. "Actually, it's over. I promise."

She draws a little cross on her chest with her finger. She lets silence settle down for a little while; long enough to let the facetious atmosphere wane.

"I brought you something," she eventually speaks again in a soft voice.

He gives her a quizzical look.

Romanoff pulls her arm out from under the table and lays her hand, palm down, on the table.

"I came across it very recently and I thought it should be returned to its rightful owner."

She slides her hand across the table and stops when it is close enough. She then delicately lifts her hand, like a jewelry case being open to reveal the gem lying beneath.

He can hardly hold back a gasp of surprise. There is a lump in his throat. He stares at it then eventually voices, unable to take his eyes off of it: "I thought that was gone."

The corner of her mouth rises in a slightly bashful smile. His fingers cautiously reach for it and puts the object to rest in his palm. He then lifts the lid, expectant and afraid, and he finds the photograph of Peggy in the same state that he remembered to be the last time he had a look at it that evening of 1944 before going into the ice. He now begins to perceive how far away that was.

He thought he would never see her again, but there is her smiling face in the palm of his hand. His vision gets blurred and watery.

Romanoff begins to stand up but he looks up at her whilst his thumb is stroking the familiar curves of his compass.

"Don't…you don't have to go," he calls.

She smiles at him. "Of course I do. I shouldn't be here right now."

She walks up to the door and leaves him to his reunion with Peggy.


	8. Chapter 7

A week later, he is suiting up for a new mission. Just like the first time, he is given very little intel. But he is expected to go along with it regardless.

He puts up on the black stealthy suit and prudently puts the compass in one of his pockets. He grabs his helmet and places it under his arm before stepping out of the room. He finds Natasha waiting outside, on the wall opposite the door.

To his surprise, there is a mat black 4x4 at the tail with the Colonel on the passenger seat.

He and Natasha get in the truck with the tactic team before it drives off to an unknown place. Elbows on his knees, he is quiet, trying to evaluate the distance traveled. She is sitting across from him, giving the men instructions.

After a couple of hours, she opens the box for him to collect his shield.

"About a dozen terrorists are in hiding in a lake house by the woods. We suspect they are scattered all across the area and are expecting us. They're armed and dangerous," she briefs him.

"Any hostage?" he asks.

"The house has been unoccupied for years."

She informs him of the logistical and tactical approach. Of course, he is never left alone — she, and three other men — including Dimitri — are to go along with him.

Soon the truck stops and they all hop off. The black 4x4 pulled down further up the path.

The cold is particularly harsh today; he shoots a glance at Romanoff. She is a wearing a dark brown suede vest over her catsuit.

She loads her guns and he puts his helmet on: the mission has officially started. They enter the woods into small groups, with different itineraries.

They catch sight of a terrorist patrolling a few yards ahead. Natasha whispers instructions into her transmitter; a couple of seconds later, a silent bullet puts him down. They continue to progress in the most absolute silence like predators slowly closing in around the unaware prey.

Romanoff makes every halt and she stands behind a tree trunk to have a look at the surroundings. Her eyes sweep over Dimitri, standing by the tree beside her, then immediately shift back on him. There is the red dot laser gunsight right on his chest. She pounces and pushes him away; the gunshots shred fern behind them. All the agents shoot back.

Still lying on top of Dimitri, she brings her wrist up to her mouth and shouts orders into the transmitter whilst her eyes search for a wound on him. She rolls off him to her back, pulls her gun out, and waits for the rain of bullets to cease momentarily for her to leap back on her feet. One of her men falls dead to the ground.

Steve has found the shooter. He pulls a knife out and throws it; it hits his knuckles and disarms him. Steve runs at him and kicks him hard against the tree, knocking him down.

But other shootings erupt from different parts of the area in the distance. There are Dimitri and another agent with them. She sends Dimitri to back up the other team. The three of them head towards the lake house only 200 yards ahead.

They neutralize the criminals standing by the house. She lets Steve go around from the left side whereas she and her man take left. He notices the lake is completely frozen and across stand woods atop a hill. It's not so far away — hardly 150 yards — and the forest is dark and thick as asphalt. If could reach it, he would disappear completely.

Romanoff's agent steps into the small cabin to check it. Natasha is told via the transmitter that all the men in the woods have been neutralized. Her agent soon comes out onto the porch and glances down at her to let her know it is clear.

But a bullet comes flying in and pierces through the agent's chest. Steve nervously jumps in surprise on the other side. She flips around and shoots the terrorist dead.

"All clear," she calls to him in English. "Stand down."

His heart is pounding furiously as his mind is holding tight to the thought that it might be his only opportunity. He hopes she will let him; he expects she won't.

He takes a deep breath in and charges towards the lake. Natasha watches him emerge from the other side like an uncaged hare. For a moment, she doesn't move, wondering whether he is chasing another target.

But then, it hits her. She understands. He is trying to escape.

She leaps forward and runs after him across the lake. Her feet hit the ice in a muffled sound.

"Rogers," she calls after him although she knows it is in vain.

He doesn't listen to her and only looks at the hill he must climb before penetrating the safe woods. His legs are carrying him as fast as possible toward freedom. He can see it, he can begin to touch it, he can begin to feel it. Adrenaline strangely mixes utter fear and euphoria.

But Natasha is holding on, too. She chases with the same diligence that carries him forward. She is afraid — terrified.

She can see he is getting close to the forest and she knows it is part of his plan. And she is running out of breath and is being distanced.

She pulls the gun out and shoots a few bullets at his feet.

"I said stop!" she shouts.

He suspects her next bullet won't miss its target. It was her warning.

She puts her finger on the trigger and aims at his leg. She holds on a little longer. She groans. Why won't he just stop?

A sudden click erupts from beneath her and she falls forward to the ground as the gun falls out of her hand and a yelp of pain escapes her lips. It makes him slow down.

Natasha is flat on her stomach, fists deep in the snow. The acute pain emanating from her pain is excruciating. She looks down at it and sees, in the middle of the snow, that her ankle is trapped in a steel-jaw trap. The rusty teeth are viciously gnawing through her muscle.

Steve has halted; he has seen it too. He stands hesitantly as a turmoil of thoughts invade him. Her team should arrive and break her free, soon. She's in pain. She remorselessly chased him and was going to shoot him. She's in pain — she needs his help. She is one of them and she doesn't deserve his help. She's in pain and she's been the closest to a friend. She is one of them.

He turns around and starts toward the forest. He is going away and she cannot blame him.

But a dark silhouette emerges from down the hill. A straggler. He is loading his rifle as he heads toward Natasha.

She hears him coming too and throws a glimpse at him. Her cold hands rummage through the snow for her gun. She cannot move too brusquely without a new surge of pain shooting through her foot.

Her eyes desperately sweep across the ground. She catches sight of the black grip of her firearm lying several feet.

She holds her arm out but it is still too far. The terrorist is getting closer. She soon wraps her mind around the fact she will have to pull herself completely to get to it. She's been through worse. She can overcome the pain it will cause.

She props herself up and pulls. She screams out in pain as the iron teeth rip her skin further. Her body is getting shaky, her breathing is thick and heavy, but she shuts the pain away; she keeps on fighting. Her fingertips are grazing the bottom of the grip.

The terrorist is only a few feet away. He is holding his rifle up to his shoulder.

"Natasha," she hears a familiar voice.

She looks up and sees Steve running down toward her. He throws his shield at her. She catches it and holds it up just when he presses the trigger. In an ultimate effort, she takes hold of her gun.

She lowers the shield just enough to slide her other arm and shoots a bullet in the man's head.

Her body has run out of the little strength it had left. She drops the shield.

Two agents, one of whom is Dimitri, come running. The first immediately runs up to Steve's side whereas Dimitri follows his lead and leans down to help Natasha out.

"Halt," a man shouts in Russian.

Colonel Petranov is coming up the hill, followed by more agents.

Natasha is sitting on the snow and looks up at him. The Colonel's look is hard and cold. He orders three of his agents to hold Steve. He is put thick handcuffs on.

"Did you try to leave us, Captain Rogers?" he asks callously.

Steve doesn't answer. He looks at Natasha instead, wondering why he hasn't instructed his men to open the trap and look after her.

But the Colonel seems to take no interest in the matter. He stares at Steve then looks over to her.

"Did he try to escape?" he asks her.

She doesn't answer. She knows there is no good answer to give. The Colonel takes their joint silence as the answer he was demanding.

He walks to stand in front of Natasha, squats down and strokes her hair.

"I'm sorry, my child." He says in Russian.

He stands back up and looks at Steve.

"There is something you should understand Captain Rogers," he begins. "Whatever you do she is accountable for." Steve frowns. "You tried to escape and this deserves a sanction."

With a nod, he makes his agents hold him tighter. Then gazing at him, the Colonel yanks his foot up and tramples the trap. A cry of agony shoots out of Natasha that she immediately silences her into a quiet moan. Her chest is shaking in jerky movements.

Dimitri is almost as pale as she. He looks down at the floor.

She digs her nails into the snow and squeezes while maintain a meek posture, taking on her punishment.

"I'm the one who wanted to escape and she tried to stop me!" Steve yells.

"Oh, I'm sure she did. I don't question her loyalty one bit," he answers matter-of-factly. "You're the one I'm taming here."

He lifts his foot and menacingly presses it over the closed trap. Steve stiffens. "Whatever you do she pays the consequence of it. Don't bother to pretend you don't care we both know it is in your nature to care."

He presses his foot down a little and she shuts her eyes, swallowing down the pain. Steve winces.

"Is it understood, Captain?" he asks.

He closes his eyes and bites his lip. "Yes," he whispers. The foot is still on the trap. "YES," he shouts. "Just let her go."

Petranov clasps his hands together in a loud clap. "Fantastic. I knew we could find an arrangement."

He moves his foot away and turns around. Walking away, he gives his men instructions.

Dimitri and two other agents rush in and open the trap. They pick Natasha up, sluggishly standing on her other foot.

The other agents lead Steve away and, with a heavy heart, his gaze follows her feeble figure along the way back to the truck.


	9. Chapter 8

His eyes are fixed on her but as they reach the trucks, she is taken to the one at the front, while the agents firmly usher him into another one.

He is silent, playing the scene over and over again. He wonders what he could have done differently. He is thinking he should have run away at another time. Maybe he shouldn't have stopped running at all. But she would have been shot, no doubt. He had to intervene and help. He couldn't just escape, not at the cost of somebody else's life.

He starts blaming himself over the smallest things. He shouldn't have gone for that route — he should have known the hill would be filled with traps.

Maybe he shouldn't have run away when she was alone. He had done so because part of him had hoped she would let him go.

Back to the headquarters, he is taken back to his quarters. His eyes search to catch a glimpse of Natasha in vain. It seems like she is kept away from him — or maybe she wants to stay away.

His thick handcuffs are removed and he is left alone in the room. Alone with his devouring thoughts. As strange as it sounds, alone with his guilt.

He remains seated on the edge of the bed that night, thinking over and over about his decisions. He finds it impossible to figure out which would have been the best to choose: run away and not look back, come back to help her, ask the Colonel to stop hurting her, try to escape at all…

He wonders what the next day will be like; if everything will be different and for the worst; if he will ever be allowed out of this room; if she will take her distance.

All those thoughts keeping him awake.

He wonders where she is now. Is she being looked after? Is she angry? Is Petranov with her?

And although he shouldn't have cared to ask himself the question — does she hate him?

He has no visitor the next morning. Neither in the afternoon. He is not really surprised. He knows it is part of his punishment.

He can stay alone. Solitude doesn't scare him. But he catches himself letting his eyes wander off to the chess board.

Two days later, the door opens. His body jerks up and he expectantly looks at the door.

It's Dimitri.

The young man is sheepish but slightly distant.

He is here to bring his lunch tray.

Steve is obsessed with a single question and every part of him forbids him to ask it. He first watches the young soldier in silence.

"Is there anything I can bring you, Captain?" Dimitri asks coyly. "Maybe new books?"

He shakes his head.

Dimitri nods silently and pauses. After a couple of seconds, he clears his throat and starts off towards the door. Steve is suddenly caught by irrepressible panic, like someone aware he might be losing the only opportunity he will ever get.

He cannot be proud. Not now.

"How is she?" he asks suddenly. Steve is calm and collected but if Dimitri wasn't so young he would have noticed that his eyes betray him.

"I am not allowed to say," Dimitri answers gently. He sounds sorry he can't say more.

Steve nods to himself. He should have known they would deliberately keep him in the dark. It is part of the process to make him docile. But he bottles it all in; he can't show it upsets or angers him.

For now, he has to put up with it.

After five days, an agent comes in and hold the door open for Natasha. She steps in with the aid of crutches. Her ankle is wrapped up in bandages.

She stands in the middle of the room and looks at him. He doesn't voice a word. He first wants to know where they both stand now.

She is calm and her face carries an unfathomable expression. She instructs the agent to leave the room in Russian.

Silence falls upon them again. She seems to be waiting; he just wishes he knew for what.

"Do you mind if I sit down?" she eventually addresses him. She points to the chair.

She sits and puts the crutches against the table edge. She then rests her arms over her lap and looks up at him with her green eyes. He searches them for a trace of anger but doesn't find any. The trouble is he cannot find anything and it is highly frustrating.

"How's the leg?" he eventually asks because silence has just become too unbearable.

She holds her gaze up. "It's not broken. I got lucky," she answers.

He realizes he just sighed in relief.

He clasps his hands together on the table and leans in.

"I know what you're thinking," he begins.

"Do you?" she says with a smirk.

He pauses. She won't get him to apologize for wanting to escape. No matter her sarcasm, no matter how guilty he feels for being partly responsible for her double injury.

"If I...All I wanted —," he takes his eyes off of the table to look up at her. "I had to try," he says with unwavering certainty. He could never say sorry for trying.

She looks at him in the eyes. "I know," she states matter-of-factly.

He freezes as she lets him, for a very short moment, read her emotions. He surprisingly finds them not to be belligerent. Nothing but placid understanding.

"I didn't know you'd pay the consequences of it," he continues.

"I know," she repeats similarly.

He frowns, taken aback by her well-disposed response.

"Looks like I know your thoughts better than you think you know mine," she comments ironically and smiles. "I can't blame you for trying to escape, Rogers. I expected nothing less from you. I let my guard down."

"Why?" he asks.

"Because I had begun to trust you," she said. "To see you as a teammate."

"You can trust me," he murmurs.

"I never said I doubted it," she corrected. "You proved me right. You came back to save me." She leans in closer. "Thank you for saving my life again."

Flabbergasted is the word that best describes him at this moment.

"Did you know he would hurt you?" he asks

Natasha's eyes flicker away. "It doesn't matter. What's done is done."

"He doesn't deserve someone like you to be loyal to him."

"He saved me," she mutters. "I owe him _everything_."

His voice grows raucous. "No, you don't. Not at this price."

Her eyes turn dark and her expression hardens. "One heart-to-heart conversation isn't enough to pretend to understand. You know nothing."

"I know enough," he answers softly. "And nothing could possibly justify the way he treated you. He's using you."

"And you used me," she retorts quite collectedly. "You took advantage of the trust I put in you. You say you care but you ran off without looking back."

He shakes his head and his eyes slightly begin to glow. "I looked back."

They both understand what he is referring to — he looked back and acted on it. She remains cold and indifferent.

"You know I'm right," he adds. She reaches for her crutches and stands up. "Romanoff," he calls. She pauses to look at him. His heartbeat quickens. "If it wasn't for the trap…would you have taken that shot?"

He came back for her and he hopes she wouldn't have pulled the trigger. Her pupils remain steady and blank.

"I guess you'll never know," she answers.

Then she heads towards the door and leaves.


	10. Chapter 9

It has been twelve days since he attempted to escape and the routine has grown incredibly dull. Steve spends his days locked up in the room, reading or drawing. Romanoff's visits are brief and cordial but they lack something he is beginning to crave. Companionship.

He feels like a stranger in front of her. And it seems she has wiped off any remnant of their budding relationship. He catches himself missing their banter and her sarcasm. This sarcasm that he found contemptuous at first, but soon grew to become a semblance of normality. It made him feel less like a prisoner and more of a human being.

Petranov sees a tool in him.

Dimitri views him as child hero.

She saw him as a person, simply put. Behind the upper soldier, behind Captain America, she saw Steve.

And he craves to see his reflection in her eyes again. With time, he fears Steve Rogers will only live on in his memory until it slowly becomes to vanish, like a print on wet sand washed off by the waves; until it becomes a stranger to him.

The snowy days have left ways to milder days. He can almost feel the sunlight through the window glass.

Seated at his desk and reading, he notices that the red light of the surveillance camera has just gone off. A moment later, he hears movement in the hall outside.

The door opens and he stands up. An agent is letting someone in. Steve frowns when he recognizes the familiar features of Irina.

She has a lustful smirk on. She exclaims something in Russian and wraps her arms around his neck, kissing him fully. Taken by surprise, he almost loses her balance and she presses her body against him. She runs the tip of her tongue over his lips.

He wants to speak but she doesn't let him. She eagerly takes her coat off and throws him on the floor before pinning him again. The agent hastily disappears behind the door.

"Irina," he tries to call, gently putting his hands to her hips to keep her away. She moans against his mouth and pushes him on the bed. He falls flat on his back and she straddles him. She unbuttons her blouse to reveal the lace lingerie she is wearing underneath.

Confusion and timidity assault him alongside her and he cannot seem to comprehend what is going on. He doesn't hear the door of the room open.

The voice of someone clearing their throat thankfully pull him out of this uncomfortable situation…only to put him in an awkward one. He finds Natasha standing before them with a straight face.

Irina stops and runs her thumb along her bottom lip to wipe off the excess of lipstick.

"Having fun, Rogers?"

"It's not what it looks like," he exclaims.

He notices she is wearing her catsuit.

"Well, I certainly hope it looks like it," she comments matter-of-factly. She then turns to Irina and speaks in Russian.

The young man immediately switches behavior and comes off of him. She goes to stand to Natasha and collects the folded bills that she is holding her hand.

She hands in the money and he understands she gives her instructions to wait here.

"Merrymaking is over, Steve. It's time," Natasha says.

"Time for what?" he asks numbly.

She smirks. "Time to leave."

He jumps on his feet and readjusts his shirt. He shoots a sheepish glance at Irina who kindly smiles at him like nothing happened.

"The camera is off for your enjoyment visit and the hall is empty. I have also deactivated the security system. That gives us a few minutes to make it to the exit," she explains methodically before casually suggesting to wipe lipstick off his mouth with a quick motion. "Then I remembered Irina. I asked her to make it look very convincing."

"So, you sent her?" he asks.

She nods and a playful smirk comes to her lips. "I may or may not have stalled my entrance."

For the first time in a while, he recognizes the old Natasha.

She hands him a warm coat. "Put it on," she says.

She reminds Irina to wait here in Russian then goes to the door. The woman nods back.

They both step outside. She tells him to the right to the staircase and to wait for her to meet him downstairs.

He obeys. Somehow, he knows he can trust her implicitly.

He turns right and she goes left. She rushes to the armory and swipes her key card. She goes in to get his shield and rushes back out.

She silently runs along the corridor and finds an agent with her back on her. She comes behind him and knock him down and quietly lays him down on the floor.

The sound of a safety catch reverberates in the hall. She looks up.

Dimitri is standing a few feet away, aiming his gun at her.

She puts a hand up but closely holds the shield with the other.

"What are you doing?" he asks in disbelief.

"I have to help him to leave, Dimitri," she says carefully. "You know he doesn't belong here."

"You're betraying your country," he says.

"I've never been a soldier," she answers. She takes a step forward but he holds his gun more firmly. "I'm only doing what's right. He deserves to go home."

She counts the precious seconds going by. She knows she could take him down without any noise being made. But he's her protegee. He's Dimitri.

"Please," she whispers. "I'm not asking you to help. Just let me do it."

He shakes his head weakly and gulps down. "He's not out Captain," she continues. "I know you understand."

Dimitri purses his lips together then sighs. He lowers his gun.

She smiles at him. "Thank you," she says. "Gotta keep you safe, now."

She leaps forward, takes his gun and hits him with it. He falls unconscious on the ground. Natasha throws a last protective look at the boy and resumes running.

Steve is waiting on the bottom floor when two agents casually walk around the corner.

They widen their eyes in surprise and reach for their guns but they are immediately neutralized by a dark silhouette. Natasha steps over them and rushes to his side.

She hands him the shield.

"Follow me," she says. She uses her card to unlock many metal doors along the hall, all the way to a bar grille door. Sunlight and cool air pass through.

Natasha quickly opens it and lets him out. She then closes I behind him. Steve frowns in surprise and flips around to face her.

She looks at him across the grill.

"Go South for about 12 miles. There'll be a village with a small car parked. The keys are above the back right-side tire," she explains. Then she smiles. "Good luck."

"What about you?" he asks.

"I'm an assassin and I doubt US authorities will be thrilled to see me."

"You can't stay here. You helped me."

Don't worry about me. I'll be okay."

Shouting erupts from the top floor. "Go," she urges him with a calm voice.

He takes a step forward then stops.

He can't.

"Run with me," he says with inflexible determination. "You told me that people here never give up on their own, well you see, I'm not giving up on you."

Grasping one of the bars, she shakes her head. "I'll be a burden. And my leg isn't fully recovered yet. I'd slow you down."

"I don't care," he says and his eyes dive into hers. He lays his hand on her white knuckles. "Come with me," he whispers, "or I'm not running at all."

Her eyes numbly gaze at his hand on top of hers.

Running steps echo down the corridor. She looks behind then back at him. Her pupils quiver as she seems to ponder. His gaze is steady and imperturbable.

She looks up at him and nods. She opens the door, takes a breath in and steps to the other side. She then grabs his hand and heads forward.

And together they run.


	11. Chapter 10

He follows her without an ounce of doubt. She leads and he goes along. He trusts her special agent skills to get them away and he has faith in her to do what is right to keep him safe.

Natasha runs and never slows down like she has done it before. She is fast, methodical and efficient. Her breathing is fast-paced but not frantic. She looks like she could go on for hours.

She slides down snowy sloping grounds like a feather then speeds up the pace again.

After half an hour, she takes them into a forest. She ventures into the deepest part of it swiftly and with ease.

After a while, she slows down the pace. It is less urgent but guarded. She eventually stops and crouches down before a tree. She slips a hand into the cavity at the base of the trunk and pulls a bag out.

She opens it and takes out a heavy coat, then guns and munitions. She hands one to him. She also gets a cellphone out, money from different currencies.

"How come you had this, here?" he asks

"I'm a spy. I have many of those scattered all around the globe. For rainy days," she comments with a smirk.

She puts on the coat and zips it up. "They're on our trail right now. They will assume we are heading South to the closest village, which means a tactic team is heading there as we speak."

He nods. "So, what do we do?"

"We keep moving across the woods then head West when the snow starts to fall to cover our tracks. It's longer but the safest route we got."

She zips the backpack and puts it on.

"Why did you decide to help me?" he asks.

She adjusts the straps and looks up at him. "You were right," she begins, staring into his eyes. "I could let you out if I really wanted to. And I realized I wanted to. Sorry for the little act the other day, by the way. We were being watched and I had to be convincing."

"When did you realize you wanted to," he says quietly.

She grins matter-of-factly. "When I understood I couldn't take that shot."

They watch each other in silence, exchanging a dozen thoughts with a simple gaze.

He grins back at her. "Thank you," he utters the words softly.

And although he had doubted it at times, he finds solace in the confirmation he was right to put trust in her. As irrational — insane — it might have been to let himself believe it, Steve eventually came to the point he saw a friend in Natasha. A reliable one. One he could risk his own freedom for, because his guts, or maybe a little voice in his head, have been telling him he could trust her. Despite the facts, despite the odds. He overlooked who she was and her surroundings, and through all these thick smoke screens, he saw Natasha.

She is the one he is following now. Not the Russian assassin, nor the Colonel's protegee.

Natasha.

* * *

She is no longer running now but still maintains a quick pace. The air grows cooler. She was correct — it is only a matter of time before the snow falls.

Natasha is silent for the most part of the journey. She seems pensive, enwrapped in tyrannous thoughts. He knows what she must be going through and he feels he has no right to step in it. Closely beside her, he stays away from her internal turmoil, mindful not to encroach on her privacy.

They walk relentlessly for hours from plain to plain — it seems Russia is an incessant series of the same white landscape.

Natasha tells him they will be safe when they reach St-Petersburg. It is still a very long way, though. The nearest small town is miles away.

He begins to hope he could soon be back to New York. He has missed the familiar tower lines soaring to infinity, the white steam slipping through the sewer grates, the million lights that never die. He saw the pictures from modern New York in the books: and as much as it changed, it has all remained the same. He knows he will easily find his way back around those streets his legs have trodden a thousand times, he will readily learn again a local accent his ears have heard all his life, he will effortlessly distinguish amid all the countless novelties old details that his eyes have seen a hundred times over.

He wonders if his place in Brooklyn is still there and it looks like. Maybe he will go, walk through his childhood streets, and gauge how much of it hasn't changed at all.

But he also wonders…how will people welcome him? Will they be scared or wary? Scared of a man who has defied death and returned. Will he fit in? Will he find his bearings in this new society? War is over and the Nazis were defeated. He has spent so long trying to get in the army to help, he wonders how he could be useful in this new time.

The past three months in that isolated facility didn't allow him to explore the new millennial. The only thing he knows about it, he has learned about it from books and monitored sessions on the Internet. Truth is, he is a stranger to this world.

The only thing he knows for certain is that greed still runs in the veins of this modern society. Powerful men seek more power and trample on innocent ones if needs be.

Freedom does not come first. It is treated as a liability.

And yet, as horrid at it is, he finds it oddly familiar. The world hasn't changed very much and, putting aside the tragedy of it, this well-known environment is the very base of his new bearings. He does not need to start anew nor deconstruct his approach to life. He does not need to acquire new reasoning because the essence of the problem still remains: this world is filled with injustice and he wants to contribute and help fight it.

His eyes divert to Natasha. Could it become something she wants to?

When they cross the Russian border, what will she do? When they make it to America, what will she decide to do next? Will she want to part ways and will they become strangers again?

He grows a little nervous. He doesn't want to go away and disappear. Regardless of her job and her diverging views and methods, he has seen the good in her many times. He is positive she can achieve far greater things than the ones she was restricted to all her life.

She can become someone else if she decides to.

The snow has been falling heavily for several hours and it has slowed down their progress. Natasha's feet sink in deeper for every step.

He thinks about her injured leg. He remembers the little girl who once walked across the tundra in winter. He wonders if she is thinking about any of these. He wonders if she is having regrets.

He eyes her cautiously.

But neither the weather nor her thoughts seem to slow down her determination.

At least that clears out one question.

Part of him wants to say thanks. Part of him wants to say sorry.

* * *

The night fell a few hours ago but Natasha does not deviate her initial route (nor does she worry it could happen), despite the darkness and the thick snow. She has been trained to survive in any environment, especially the most hazardous and extreme ones.

The conditions have grown sensibly difficult. The night frost has replaced the magnanimous day breeze. His feet have begun to get wet in the boots and the skin is growing numb.

He suspects it is the same for Natasha.

Eventually, they catch sight of a dim light shining in the distance. They move toward it. The skeleton of a tavern slowly grows in the dark.

Natasha and he stop behind a tree and watch circumspectly. The place is completely isolated and quiet.

They exchange looks and she heads toward it. They both know they need rest and a warm shelter if they want to regain their strength.

She silently steps to the main and leans in to listen. She then reaches for the handle and advises him to stay silent.

She pushes the door open and they are hit by a warm waft. They step inside and their eyes sweep from corner to corner. The fire logs crackle in the fireplace standing on their right.

A woman, round and in her fifties, appears from another room with a circumspect look.

She asks what they want. Or so he assumes. Her accent is so thick he can hardly pick up any word.

Natasha slightly drops her guard to put on a more courteous expression. She answers without moving closer.

The woman's eyes flicker over to him and back to her. She speaks again.

Natasha replies politely but never smiles, as she feels than overfriendliness will throw her off.

The woman answers briefly and Natasha moves over to the counter. He follows behind.

She pulls a few bills out of her coat pocket and lays them on the counter.

After glancing down at the money, she looks at them again and makes a brief comment with a hard tone. It seems she is saying there won't be any hot meal. Natasha shakes her head and answers just as concisely.

The woman wipes her hands in the apron hanging at her bell, frowns some more at them, then reaches down before dropping a key on the counter, right next to the money.

She glances over at Steve then petulantly warns Natasha. Steve frowns internally. Romanoff nods and takes the key. She heads over to the door on the left and goes up the stairs.

Once they are far enough not to be heard, curiosity takes over and he whispers:

"What did she just say?"

Natasha's voice remains cool and imperturbable. "She said 'don't have sex'."


	12. Chapter 11

The room is warm, almost stuffy. Twenty minutes later, the owner of the tavern knocks at the door. She walks in with a tray with sandwiches, small bowls of soup and poppy-seeds ring buns, as well as drinks with glass carafe willed with still water. Her eyes swiftly sweep over the room and the untouched double bed in the middle of the room.

She leaves the tray on the table in the corner and Natasha thanks her. The woman barely nods, takes another look in search of some suspicious items before slowly walking out of the room. She closes the door and Steve is about to speak but Natasha presses a finger over lips, urging him to wait.

After a short while, she puts her finger down.

"She is quite wary," he comments.

"Welcome to Russia," Natasha answers with a smirk. "Wariness is the best security one can get around here. I'd be more worried if she were all smiles."

She heads over to the table, sits down and grabs a sandwich. He comes over and does the same.

The soup is tasty but hardly tepid. Then he hungrily bites into the brown bread of the chicken sandwich.

They eat in silence, mostly because they cannot be sure the woman is not prying behind the door.

Natasha has nearly finished. She reaches for the small shot of vodka included in the meal and drinks up. She shuts her eyes as she gulps it down — it brings red to her cheeks.

"I needed that," she breathes out after putting the glass down. She then gets up and heads over to the bathroom. "I won't take long," she says as she grabs one of the towels on the bed.

He remains seated on the chair without a word in the middle of the quiet room with nothing but the sound of the pattering shower behind the door.

He would like to walk over to the window and look but he prioritizes safety over the rest.

After some time, Natasha walks out of the bathroom, dressed in a thick cotton robe, her damp hair loosely tied up and flushed face. He has never seen her like this before, in such an intimate state that makes her looks vulnerable. Normal. As if the water washed away Black Widow and her past, and only left the young woman Natasha. And indeed, with her hair up and her neck bare, he can see how young she is.

She quietly enters the room and steps aside to let him use the bathroom next.

It is rudimentary but large enough to move around.

He takes off his clothes and steps in the shower. The water is hot and soothing, like a balm on his numb body. He could stay there forever.

After eventually stepping out, he wipes his wet towel over the foggy mirror to have a look at his reflection.

For lack of anything else to wear, he reaches for the second cotton robe hanging on the door and puts it on.

He nervously takes a deep breath in before turning the handle and walking out.

The bedroom is just as stifling. The window is blocked but it seems Natasha has managed to hold it slightly open by slipping a spoon in.

He turns and finds her sitting on the bed, hunched over her bent knee, the backpack lying with an open mouth by her side. Her first aid kit is open and she is applying antiseptic cream on her reddish scars.

He winces slightly at the sight of them; it brings back distasteful memories. She glances at him and her eyes trail over his figure. He remains standing by the doorway as his manners deem it inappropriate to enter her private space.

"We'll leave at dawn and head West. It should take half the day to reach a little town nearby," she says while resuming tending her leg. "Then it will take just as long to get to St-Petersburg. It'll be safe for you to go on to Europe."

"For me?" he frowns. "What about you?"

"I'll find somewhere to go."

He shakes his head and walks over to the bed.

"You have somewhere to go. You can come with me to New York."

Natasha takes her eyes off her ankle and smiles. "America is the last place I would go to. I'm wanted."

He can see her point but he somehow finds it quite distressing.

"Maybe they'll understand if I explain," he says.

"Explain what?" she asks with an arched eyebrow.

"Your situation. Petranov. I could make them understand."

She smiles up at him. "That's very sweet but that's not how governments work."

"I'll help you," he assures her. "Like you helped me. Like you're helping me."

"Steve, I'm a baddie. Baddies get no happy ending. It's in every Hollywood movie," she adds with a sad smirk.

His legs carry him over to the bedside. He needs to make eye contact for what he has to say, so he sits down next to her.

"You're not," he says softly. "You're nothing like him."

Her eyes quiver slightly, filling in with many emotions.

"How would you know? You don't know who I am…what I've done. I've got red on my ledger."

His gaze is steady.

"I know you care for those who need help. I've seen you save that little girl. And you saved me."

Natasha looks away, over to the window. She breathes in slowly then looks back at him.

"It's not enough to be redeemed," she murmurs. She looks genuinely hurt.

"It's enough for me."

She nods and gulps down.

She reaches for the clean bandage roll. He holds her hand and takes the roll.

"May I?" he asks.

She nods weakly and he opens it. She moves her half-covered leg closer to him. Then, with slightly shaky fingers, he begins to wrap it delicately around her ankle. His fingers sometimes slip and graze the soft skin of her calf.

She watches him silently, a hand pressed on her knee.

""Thank you for that," she says and he understands she means their conversation. "Your gratitude. This isn't a feeling I'm used to seeing in other people's eyes."

He pauses and beholds her. She is perilously attractive and soothingly beguiling. The very essence of Natasha's dual nature. He should regard her with suspicion but he trusts her; he should begrudge her for his imprisonment but he feels he has nothing to forgive her for; he should be revolted by her past but he is understanding; he should abhor her but he doesn't.

He doesn't.

"It's not gratitude," he says. "Not only. You asked me if I could trust you and I said no. I trust you now."

Her brows furrow. She seems totally unfamiliar with that new feeling submerging her, with that feeling submerging him.

"Why would you trust me? After everything."

He ties the bandage up and slowly pulls his hands away.

"Because everyone deserves a second chance. I truly believe that," he speaks softly. "Maybe you haven't heard it enough — maybe never at all — but you're a good person, Romanoff."

She looks at him with a frozen expression. A tear rolls down her cheek. She laughs as she quickly rubs it away with the back of her hand.

"I still can't go with you," she said. "It's not safe for either of us."

He won't hear it. They've started this together, they should finish it together.

"Stay," he says softly. He then shakes his head. "Would that sound weird if I said you're the only thing that makes this unknown world less scary?"

"Very weird," she answers with a smirk.

They laughed quietly.

"I know, I know. Maybe I'm being selfish but I need you." He pauses and looks her deep in the eye. "I need you, Nat."

Her dark pupils shake under his intense gaze, completely unsettled. He has never been so sure and confident about something since he woke up than this.

He reaches for the hand on her knee and holds it tight. This is the second time in three months that he has known her — the second time within twenty-four hours — that he does it. Like a yearning.

An irrepressible yearning to be physically close to someone he has found himself growing emotionally close to. Natasha feels the pull, as well. She stares down at his hand, silent.

He has never touched a woman so intimately as he is touching her. And the thrill he is feeling, he thought he would never feel it again. He did once: when Peggy pulled him for a kiss.

"You don't know what you're saying," she protests quietly. "You only think you need me because I'm all—"

He leans in and kisses her. Softly. With a strange combination of shyness and determination. His heart is pounding in his chest.

He wanted to kiss her…for a thousand reasons. So varied and yet all so similar that he can't go through each and every single one of them yet again. He has done it a dozen times before, locked in his bedroom.

But everything is different, now. He is not a prisoner anymore and she is not captor. He now sees she has never really been.

She was a pawn. A pawn that slowly made its way across the board and transformed into a Queen. Powerful and formidable. Determined and unstoppable. She achieved Checkmate all by herself, and she took him along with him.

Natasha doesn't move. He pulls away and finds her gazing at him. He's never seen her eyes so up close, and he has confirmation they are truly emerald.

She looks vulnerable, in the grip of doubts and questions. But she suddenly shuts them all down. Her look changes and she is strong again. Yet a different kind of strong.

She leans in and plants a kiss on his lips. First soft and chaste, then more sensual and needy. She slips a hand around his neck, then folds her leg down so she can shift and close the gap between them. His hands grab her waist and pull her against him.

She rises on her knees and stands above him. Her hand strokes his face as she looks down at him.

Her touch is soft but desperate for tenderness in return like it is something she has lacked all her life.

She leaves a trail of heated kisses along his jawline to his neck.

"I want to feel," she repeats into his ear and her voice breaks into a quiet moan.

He slips a hand under her knee and scoops her up against him. He kisses her neck and pulls the robe down her shoulder before moving his lips to her collarbone. Her hands impatiently go for his robe and rapidly take it off of him then she presses herself against his bare chest. He tilts her over, lays her down on the mattress and lies on top of her as she pulls him down eagerly.

Their kisses are hungry. Hungry for tenderness and comfort both have been missing for a very long time. A physical closeness that strengthens him and soothes her.

She flips them over, straddling his waist, as she pants for air. She pauses for a moment and looks down at him, waiting for him to stop everything if he wants to. But he doesn't want to.

He wants to comfort and alleviate her; ease all of her past and ongoing sorrows; make her whole.

She lifts her hands up to her head and removes the pin to let her hair free — a few red curls fall around her face. Their hands reach for the belt of her robe. He unknots it and, hands up to her shoulders, she makes the fabric slip off of her. Her heart is beating as rapidly as his, and they stare for a long moment at each other before one dares make the next move.

The stuffy room is almost suffocating; their bodies are radiating heat as their dewy skins glisten in the fire light. His hands explore new lands they are eager to discover, his mouth thirsty for the delectable nectar on her lips. Soon they find the same pace, organically, like their minds once did. Although zealous and resolute, she lets him have control. He can feel her letting go. Breaking free.

He gently collapses on her, burying his face in her neck and taking in her scent — he has grown a liking for it. Breathing heavily, she folds her arms across his broad back. He falls sound asleep before she does, overcome by exhaustion. In his arms, she feels strong and unfettered, and he has given her a taste of freedom. She gazes at the ceiling, softly humming to herself, her fingers gliding from the base of his hair to the bottom of the neck.

She feels alive.


	13. Chapter 12

He awakes some hours later with the unpleasant sensation of a cool space next to him, something he has sadly been familiar his entire life but which, today and considering the events of the night before, leaves a particularly sour taste.

He drowsily opens his eyes and looks about. He finds Natasha sitting up in the nude, as sunrays slip thought and delicately outline the curves of her silhouette from her neck to the waist. Her back still turned on him, she ties her hair up and slips in the cotton robe she picked up from the floor. She gets up and goes to the bathroom.

When she returns 15 minutes later, she is dressed in her catsuit, ready to face the outside world. She glances in his direction and grins slightly.

"Ready to meet me downstairs in 20?" she asks softly, then her eyes trail off to his bare figure hardly wrapped up in the sheet. "I'll make sure to give the owner a generous tip."

He smirks and represses the urge to conceal the flush on his cheeks in his pillow. When he steps in the bathroom a couple of minutes later, he hears the door of the bedroom shut shortly after.

* * *

When they depart together, the Russian woman eyes them with the same circumspect expression, and he suspects that his somewhat guilty expression, unlike Natasha's stoical one, can easily be read.

They step out of the tavern and resume their trek across the snowy plain. Half a day, Natasha said.

She does not talk much. And when she does she only discusses strategic details to keep a low profile. He shouldn't demand anything, but he wishes she would allow them to discuss the night before. He wonders if it meant to her what it meant to him.

But what did it mean to him? He is not sure he can clearly answer the question. What he knows, however, is that it wasn't just physical. Maybe she simply wanted to let off steam, or a distraction to put everything on hold.

But not to him.

She wasn't a distraction or some sort of pressure valve. He did what he did last night because he wanted to — he _truly_ wanted to. A yearning to extend their connection. Because it is undeniable, they have a connection — she must be feeling it, too.

She isn't just anyone to him. She was different from all the people in that facility; she is different from all the partners he has ever gone on a mission with; she is different from all the women he has ever met.

Before Peggy, he had never met a woman so strong and intimidating. Before Natasha, he had never met a woman so complex and fascinating. She pushes back the limits of his reasoning.

She has taught him that the nature of people is far too intricate to be sketchily divided between black or white.

If Natasha was a color, she would be grey. Grey in all its complexity, in a rich and unfathomable combination of the other two colors. Not grey, silver, for that mixture is as precious as it is sophisticated. A silver color that is unstainable. Unlike the black that would immediately be scarred by a drop of white, or the white forever smudged by a drop of black, Natasha's grey grows, extends, thickens with every new addition. It is a fair and neutral balance between the two poles.

By the end of the day, they enter the town border. Natasha puts her hood on and makes her way to the train station. She goes to the ticket office and comes back with two tickets.

They wait nearly an hour for the train to call at the station. Natasha meticulously watches their surroundings, one hand clasping the firearm in the pocket of her jacket. He finds her a little tense.

They eventually get on the train and make their way to their wagon, to a medium-size compartment that they find unoccupied. She takes her backpack off and puts it at her feet before sitting by the window. Steve sinks down in the seat right across, by the window.

The train departs a few seconds later, and they silently look into each other's eyes for a while. As the town architecture slowly fades in the distance, Natasha progressively relaxes. After thirty minutes, she takes off her jacket and lays it down next to her.

A couple of hours has gone by and the train has slowed down to enter a small town station.

The train is not bound to arrive at St-Petersburg till daybreak. He looks at the watch on his wrist and sighs, before intertwining the fingers of his hands and beginning to tap his knuckles. The incessant clicking and screeching of the wheels on the railway have invaded the wagon.

"Only 10 hours to go, Steve," Natasha comments, glancing down at his hands. She takes off her shoes and puts her feet up on his seat, right between his legs. "I wonder what we could possibly do to pass the time. Any suggestion?"

A devious smirk is playing on her lips.

He rolls his eyes at her allusion but feels a hot wave rush through him.

"In all seriousness though, it is quite amusing to think that I was you first since 1945," she comments lightly.

He sniffs loudly. "That bad, huh?" he asks.

She chuckles to herself. She nonchalantly crosses her feet.

"Not exactly the word I would use," she says huskily.

"_Exactly_?" he repeats her word with an arched eyebrow.

She smiles cheekily. "Why? Do you need a grade, too?"

He slaps his hands on his thighs. "I've heard enough."

He moves forward to get up and leave. But she presses her small foot on his chest, her leg stretched high up to reach it. He halts and, using her foot, she gently pushes him back into his seat.

"You really need to grow a sense of humor, Rogers," she purrs playfully as she slowly slides her foot down his chest. She puts the foot flat on the seat again.

"You're not easy to read," he admits, looking her in the eye.

She bites her bottom lip, quietly taking in his comment. She lifts her foot and gently presses it on his knee.

"And is this hard to read?" she asks as her foot slowly brushes up his thigh. "How about we do it right here and then? Would that settle it?"

Staring down at her moving foot, he gulps down nervously.

"You're bluffing," he murmurs.

"Am I?" she teases, biting her thumb, and her foot slides higher up.

He breathes nervously, his brain so saturated he can hardly think.

Walking steps approaching make her drop her foot down.

"I guess we'll never find out," she whispers cheekily.

She folds her legs below herself as the handle of the compartment door turns. A man in his forties, wearing a hat and a long coat, looking stern but oblivious to the previous situation steps in and takes a seat beside her.

She glances at Steve with a subtle smirk and turns her attention back to the window.

This is definitely bound to be a long journey.

An hour has gone by and the sun has disappeared behind the horizon. The man is sitting still, looking blankly ahead, sometimes glancing at Steve. He answers with a polite grin but the man diverts his eyes away. Natasha was right — he should get used to people's personality.

The man's cellphone rings and he picks up. Natasha coolly tunes in. He answers aloud without stepping out of the compartment. After a few more words that Steve translates as belonging trivial matters, the man hangs up and puts the cellphone back in his pocket.

Natasha is staring out of the window again, watching the landscape.

Her foot carelessly kicks in her backpack and falls on the passenger's feet. The man frowns and she apologizes in Russian. He clears his throat in annoyance and leans down to move the bag away. She suddenly pounces on his back, wraps her legs around his chest and covers his mouth with one hand.

The man jumps in surprise and reaches for something in his pocket. Steve jumps up in surprise just when the man throws himself backward against the overhead luggage racks to hurt her. Her back hits the metal bar and suppresses a loud moan of pain. He pulls a gun out of his pocket and Steve tosses it away with a kick then grabs his hands to neutralize him. Natasha tightens her grip. He manages to move his chin away and opens his mouth. Natasha swiftly clasps her arm around his neck and snaps it.

Steve watches the man fall dead on the floor then looks up at Natasha with a shocked expression.

"How'd you know?" he asked.

"_Say hello to the little one, _he said: it's an old code from Soviet times," she answers as she reaches for her jacket and takes the gun out. "He was about to call out for help which means there are other men aboard."

"How do we find them?" he says.

"They'll come to us," she says, putting on her boots, then she catches sight of a dark silhouette standing behind the door of the compartment.

She slides it open and finds a gun aimed at her. Steve, standing on the hand, grabs the man's hand and swiftly pulls him inside — he flies in across the compartment and lands on the body of his colleague. Natasha jumps on him and neutralizes him.

She pokes her head out into the corridor.

"There are two more guys in the net wagon," she says. "I'll take care of them. You stay here and make sure no one sees these two. If there are more agents, you should expect their visit in the next couple of minutes."

He nods. "And after that?"

She shrugs. "I suppose they're a small team sent as scouts and now they know we're here. The train has just made its last stop and is now heading to St-Petersburg which leaves us 9 hours to work something out."

She speaks collectedly like it isn't something she hasn't been through before. She is calm and in control.

"I'll knock once," she forewarns him then makes her way out of the compartment.

* * *

Forty minutes later, he hears one knock at the door. Natasha walks nonchalantly in and drops her coat.

"The two men are no longer a problem. I also scouted the rest of the train for safety." She drops a bag filled with food on one of the couches. "Oh, and I also made a stop at the snack car."

She turns and looks at the new man lying on the floor. Like she foresaw it, a man entered the compartment a few minutes after she left.

She notices he's still breathing. "I don't plan on babysitting this one," she says casually.

"Well I'm not killing him," he answers.

Natasha eyes him shortly. She opens her backpack, takes out a small folded square paper. She opens her nearly finished water bottle, unfolds the paper and pours the white powder that is inside into the bottle. She then shakes it lightly and hands it over to Steve.

"Make him drink this. It'll keep him asleep for some time."

She sits down and looks out of the window — it is pitch dark outside.

"Maybe we should get off now," Steve says after pouring the liquid into the agent's mouth.

"We're in the middle of nowhere and they're in the lookout anyway," she says. "Our best option is to stay. St-Petersburg is still our only chance to make it out of the country."

She pauses to muse over a plan. "The train is safe. There's nothing more we can do, we get rid of these, we eat and we have some rest."

"They'll be waiting for us at the station, though," he says.

"And probably will have men waiting if we think of getting off the train before entering the city."

She looks down at the three agents lying on the floor and smirks. "They'll be looking for a man and a woman traveling together. Maybe we could tweak that. What's your shoe size?"

They undress the three men, fold them up, then wait past midnight to go and throw the bodies off the train. They leave the unconscious agent in an unoccupied compartment dressed with nothing but his underpants and blue tartan socks.

They go back to their own, switch off the lights and each lie on a couch. But both can't sleep.

She quietly turns over on her side and looks at him. They watch each quietly for several minutes. It is a different kind of intimacy than the one from the night before, and yet just as meaningful. They somehow communicate and share so much in their silence. It is the longest nonverbal conversation he has ever had with a woman.

She slips one hand under her temple.

"This is gonna work, Steve. You can trust me."

Her voice is gentle and reassuring. Through the darkness, he catches sight of her green eyes and looks deep into them. Oddly, this isn't what he worries about.

"I trust you," he answers softly.

He worries about what will happen to them after it is all over.


	14. Chapter 13

By 5 in the morning, it is announced that the train will soon be arriving at destination. Steve was already dressed in one of the agents' outfits.

Natasha walks into the compartment.

"For you," she winks, holding a fedora hat. "I thought it would suit you perfectly and filched it in one of the other cars."

He pouts and stares at it. She puts it on his head and walks over to the other outfits.

"Are you sure this will do the trick?" he asks.

She takes off her coat and reaches for the zipper at the top of her catsuit. She pulls it down and casually begins to slip her arms off the sleeves. He clears his throat.

"You're a soldier, I'm a spy. Subtlety is my thing," she answers while removing the catsuit completely.

She puts on the smallest man's striped jumper and his black pants. She ties her hair up, brushing it all backward and puts on the beret. She pulls it down to hide as much of her face as possible.

The train begins to slow down while the first buildings loom in the distance.

She rolls her catsuit in a ball and stuffs it in her bag. She keeps her gun and puts it in the pocket of her newly acquired coat.

She finally grabs the scarf she brought in just a moment and wraps it loosely around her neck to cover her chin.

The plan is simple. They should get off with the rest of the passengers and walk separately through the crowd, then meet again outside the station.

Natasha had earlier filched a large suitcase for him to put his shield in.

A few minutes later, the train is entering the station. They leave their compartment to go and blend in with the passengers waiting to get off.

"The first rule of going on the run," she murmurs, "is don't run — walk."

The train comes to a full stop, and soon the doors open. Natasha gently slips her way through the crowd, leaving him slightly ahead. She glances in his direction and gives a discreet nod.

Soon, he is on the platform and walks along with the crowd. He casually looks at his surroundings from under his hat. He sees men standing along the platform out of the corner of his eye. His first instinct is to speed up but both Natasha's piece of advice and the slow crowd surrounding hold him off.

He is led up the platform to the mouth of the stairwell going down. He walks down the stairs and crosses the foot tunnel. The crowd begins to scatter as people go in different directions.

He has in mind Natasha's instructions and keeps straight. He eventually comes out into a large, busy hall with loud announcements being made in the speakers. People dash past him without a second look. He tries to make his way across to the rendezvous and to catch sight of Natasha's beret but the incessant and swift motion of people interferes with his vision.

An object suddenly sinks in between his ribs.

"Don't move," a masculine voice mutters with a thick accent.

He wants to flip his head around but the man presses the gun harder.

A swift silhouette brushes past them. Steve feels the agent's body stiffen suddenly. When he turns, he recognizes Natasha standing behind the agent, half of her face hidden under her scarf. She has just punctured his neck with a small needle and he stares at her with wide eyes.

He is about to stagger but she wraps her arms around his waist and delicately sits him down on the public bench nearby.

She motions to Steve to keep walking straight ahead to the meeting point as planned, then she vanishes again. He makes his way through the crowd and comes out of the station a couple of minutes later. The sky is clear, completely cloudless, but still dark.

He walks over to the cab area and stands patiently. He looks like a traveler waiting for a taxi. His eyes wander across the square.

A motorbike darts in and brakes in front of him.

"Hop on," Natasha says.

Steve frowns. "How did you find it?" he asks as he climbs behind her.

"You don't want to know," she comments.

She speeds out of the cab alley and swiftly enters the main road traffic. He holds on to her and to the suitcase with his other hand.

She then veers into an alleyway and bolts down the path. The sound of the screeching tires reverberates against the narrow walls.

After a few more minutes, she slows down then stops completely — he understands it is time to get off. She leaves the key in the ignition, takes off her coat and lays it across the saddles.

The street lights go off as the first rays of sunshine start breaking through. They walk along backstreets until they reach a massive building of remarkable construction.

She walks over to a small door in the back and knocks. Several seconds go by until they finally hear the bolt open on the other side.

An elderly man, presumably the janitor, eyes them incredulously. Natasha speaks in Russian with a stern look and the man, after glancing over at Steve, opens the door fully.

They step inside the building and his eyes are struck by the fine and traditional architecture.

Natasha leads the way around the building like she has treaded the place dozens of time before. She hardly even looks at the moldings and statues that dress up each corner and wall.

They walk down a long corridor and she takes off her beret. After knocking on one of the doors with an unusual nervous posture, a woman holding a stick, appears. Her expression freezes as she takes in the sight before her. Her greyish hair is tied back into a low ponytail, and fine wrinkles frame her bright blue eyes and the corner of her mouth.

Her thin lips break into smile while her eyes gleam slightly. She takes a step forward and throws her arm around Natasha, who raises her arms to hug her back.

"Natalia," he hears the woman say softly.

* * *

Yelena is a hospitable host. She serves them breakfast and later returns with clean clothes.

"Artists are so forgetful," she says in very fluent English. "I have a room full of the clothes they leave behind."

They are sitting in one of the many rooms of Mariinsky Theater, the cradle of the Imperial Ballet and Opera. Yelena takes him to the main dressing room where a shower is attached.

"Thank you, ma'am, for your hospitality," he says as she hands him some clean towels.

He would like to ask what is her connection with Natasha although he may already have an idea.

She leans on her walking stick and smiles. "I'm glad I can be helpful," she assures. "I will soon be busy with rehearsals and other preparations for tonight's performance but do feel free to wander about the building."

Half an hour later, he is coming out of the dressing room and strolling along the labyrinthine corridors decorated with the trappings of the baroque design such as velvet carpets, crystal chandeliers, and oil paintings. Eventually, they curve all to the center of the building — the core of the theater.

Steve walks into the majestic auditorium draped with a towering architecture. He looks up and admires the paintings on the ceiling, in the middle of which, a titanic chandelier rules above all. His eyes slide down the frame in front of him and its heavy drapes, and fall upon a small figure cross-legged in the middle of the stage.

Natasha, in an exceptional moment of stillness, is taking in the architecture standing over not, like him, as a newcomer, but as an old visitor reminiscing stranded memories.

He walks down the aisle to the front, round the orchestra to the stairs going to the stage.

Natasha remains pensive.

"Hey," she speaks softly and he comes to sit down next to her.

"You've been here before," he says eventually. She can hear it isn't a question.

She nods. "I danced here for a while. But it feels like ages ago. Yelena trained me. She taught me everything I know about ballet. She said I had a gift." She laughs slightly at her last comment.

"Why did you stop?" he asks.

"Colonel Petranov agreed. But it was another kind of gift that he saw. Said I would accomplish glorious things and excel at it. After that, I left the theater and received new training. That was the end of my career as a ballet dancer."

He turns to look at her but her eyes are fixed on the imperial balcony ahead. Seeing the empty seats waiting to be occupied, he pictures the auditorium completely full and shrouded in darkness. An expectant silence settles in and lingers on. Finally, the curtains open and a blinding light falls upon the lead dancer, standing still in the middle of the stage. The audience is quiet and eager.

He wishes she could dance again and he wishes he could be there to see it.

Natasha clears her throat and rubs her temple. "I expect they are keeping an eye on all the borders. Luckily Yelena and her troop will be starting their tour tomorrow morning and she has agreed to help. Border control is far easier for dancers and it's gonna be your ticket for Europe. We just need to keep a low profile until then."

"Does it mean I'll have to wear tights?" he asks after a short pause.

She smirks. "Maybe."

He nods with a pout. "It's okay, I guess. It's nothing I haven't done before."

She smiles, biting her bottom lip. He's looking deep in her eyes. Natasha gazes back, then, after a few seconds, glances away.

"Rehearsals will be starting soon."

He nods. He knows it is time to go back to one of the rooms. He gets up, stands in front of her and holds his hands out to her. She slips her hands into his and he helps her up.

"Steve. Have you ever been to a ballet?" she asks casually.

* * *

The following evening, the building comes to life and is buzzing. He looks at the people elegantly dressed enter the building from the main square.

When it goes quiet again, Natasha takes him to one of the side balconies kept vacant for the crew. They cannot be seen but they have a privileged view on the stage.

The conductor strikes the first note and the curtains open.

_Swan Lake_ is playing tonight and he watches, completely spellbound. He has never seen such condensed beauty and perfection encapsulated in the same place, rebounding on every façade of the auditorium, sealed in by the melodious flow of powerful music.

He cannot take his eyes away, and for the first time since he woke up, he truly appreciates the beauty that the world can offer. He forgets all about their situation and for this night, becomes a spectator among the mesmerized audience.

At the climax, slightly before the show ends, his eyes well up. A tear, token of this magical moment that will leave an indelible impression, falls.

They get up right before the lights go on and sneak back to the room Yelena left for them.

She sits next to him on the sofa. It is nearly midnight.

"I will never forget this night," he says.

Natasha reaches up to stroke his face — her expression is wistful. "Good," she whispers, staring intently into his eyes. She then leans in and kisses him.

He kisses her back, eager to make this night as memorable for her as she made it for him. Her fingers slowly unbutton his shirt while he takes off her top. She then slowly pulls him down on top of her. Her kiss is different from the night at the tavern — less eager, more lingering and peaceful.

When he awakes, he is alone on the couch, and alone in the room.

He puts on his clothes and shoes and walks out into the hall while buttoning up the shirt. He nervously trots along the corridors, feeling a knot in his guts.

His muscles relax and he slows down at the sight of Natasha standing in the middle of the main hall. He frowns though when he notices the backpack on her shoulders. She is heading to the exit.

"Nat," he calls. She slowly turns around with an apologetic expression. "I don't understand," he says.

She sighs. "I have to leave. I trust Yelena and she will make sure you cross the border."

He furrows his brows and shakes his head as reality hits him.

"So tonight was a diversion?" he asks.

"No. It was farewell," she says. "I wanted it. I really wanted it."

"But you don't want to stay," he comments bitterly.

Her voice gets slightly shaky. "It's complicated enough. And they're looking for you. Parting now is what's best."

He watches her incredulously. He can't seem to understand, that after everything, she would still be determined to leave.

"Best for whom?" he says.

Side doors slam open in a deafening sound. Men in commando gear and balaclava burst in and flash them with bright light.

Natasha tries to protest two pairs of hands are holding her still. One agent hits the back of her knee with his boot and makes her fall to the ground.

Steve jumps but three other men step in and hold him back forcefully but without a hint of aggressivity. A new wave of agents come running down the main stairwell.

"Stand down, Captain." A voice calls behind them.

He turns and sees a tall, black man dressed in a long black leather coat and an eye patch comes down the stairs.

"Who are you?" Steve growls without noticing the man's strong American accent.

Although her head is forcibly kept down, she looks up through from under her hair.

"My name is Colonel Fury," he answers calmly. "And I'm taking you home."


	15. Chapter 14

"Home?" he asks.

The man in the leather coat nods. "New York. You don't belong here — you never have."

He almost can't believe what he just heard. He spent so much time trapped in that facility and that he had begun to think that his own had given up on him. The part of the journey that terrified him wasn't all the obstacles to face to cross the border but to come home to a land that had made him a stranger.

One of the agents turns and gives Colonel Fury a nod. "Time is running out, Captain Rogers. We must leave now."

Fury motions to his men to retreat. The two men standing above Natasha raise her up on her feet unceremoniously. Steve steps in and grabs one of the agents' arms.

"Let her go."

"Captain Rogers," Fury called from behind. "She is dangerous."

"She saved me," he roars, flipping around.

"And she is an assassin. I cannot trust her."

Natasha looks at him with a defeated expression, then looks away ashamedly.

"You're putting my men, myself and all of us in danger by keeping us here," Fury continues. "We must leave immediately."

Steve turns to look at Natasha, pensive. It pains him to see her in this position but he feels he cannot argue against it in the current circumstances.

He nods to Fury, and all evacuate the main entrance. He walks behind to keep Natasha in his line of sight. Handcuffed and submissive, she is escorted by three armed men.

They soon come to a technology-advanced jet. They get on from the tail and the heavy platform closes behind them. Natasha is sat down on one of the seats and her handcuffs attached to the ground with a chain while Fury gives the order to take off. Steve goes to sit next to her but neither dares look at each other.

The wheels go up, and with it, his heart rises in his chest with anticipation. He is leaving behind Russia and what was his servitude; he is headed to his home country with relief and uncertainties.

* * *

"Can you take off those handcuffs, now?" he asks Fury as the plane is flying above Europe.

Fury says and looks straight at him.

"You don't seem to understand what I going on here and I can't really blame you. Romanoff is a wanted criminal in over a dozen countries and she has broken at least 50 federal laws. It is my duty to bring her back to the US where she will face trial."

He hears those words but they sound hollow.

"But she helped me escape. You wouldn't have found where you did if it wasn't for her."

Fury arches an eyebrow, skeptical.

"And she was there when you were locked up, wasn't she?"

He purses his lips. Of course, he can see the logic of the colonel's approach but it couldn't further from the truth. Their truth — his and hers. "This is more complicated than that. Natas—"

"The _Black Widow_," Fury corrects him, "is among the most dangerous spies. She has no qualms and regrets. Do not underestimate her. I did and I made the mistake years ago not to send my best agent after her. That won't happen again."

Steve goes quiet and stern, aware he is facing a wall that cannot be crumbled, let alone broken. And although he knows those words once applied rightfully to Natasha, he feels deep down, that this isn't the person he has gotten to know the past months.

Fury has only been confronted to one side of her — the Black Widow —, but he has never met Natasha. And how can one plead a cause to someone blinded by virulent animosity?

"So she was your mission?" Steve asks.

Fury looks at him gravely and furrows his brows. "_You_ were. We've been looking for you. Ever since we got record that a Russian ship was in the Arctic. We came next, found the Valkyrie but you were not in it. You appeared on our radar again when you got off at Saint Petersburg main station yesterday."

He frowns, intently probing the Colonel.

"Who are you?"

"I work for an extra-governmental military counter-terrorism and intelligence agency known under the name of SHIELD." Fury looks at him closely before voicing the next words. "It was co-founded by Howard Stark, Colonel Chester Phillips and Margaret Carter. I believe they were friends of yours."

Steve blinks. He never thought he would hear these names be said aloud again.

"Peggy," he whispers to himself. He feels both emotions and pride at hearing about her achievement.

"She is still alive, Captain." Fury says. "And you could see her."

His eyes begin to gleam. He looks away and leans on a metal bar. He is terrified at the idea of seeing her again, just as much as he is happy. It is kind of happiness — relief — that cannot be quantified. So great that it almost chokes him. He didn't know such a thing was possible.

Of course, he wants to see her. She is the last thing he has got left.

Their last exchange suddenly echoes in his head.

And home soon begins to feel not so foreign anymore.

* * *

When the SHIELD quinjet enters the American airspace, it is plunged in darkness. It softly touches the ground and the backdoor opens. Fury says his shield will be looked after and brought it in later.

Three agents take care of removing Natasha's chains and walk her off the aircraft. Steve gulps down nervously before stepping outside.

A woman with dark hair is waiting outside. The Colonel gives her some instructions. She nods and goes along with the men having a secure hold of Natasha.

Fury then walks Steve to an elevator but he soon notes that Natasha is led in another direction.

"Where are you taking her?" he asks, looking behind him.

"I am taking you to our medical team to check you are all right. Agent Romanoff will be placed in isolation for interrogation." Fury furrows his brows and adds a moment later. "You will be free to visit her at a later time."

Steve reluctantly watches her be taken away, then follows Fury. He glances over his shoulder one last time before stepping into the elevator.

The glass booth soars out of the garage to a wide-open space. Steve flips around and holds onto the rail as he scrutinizes the view all around, completely engrossed. He soon catches sight of the glorious obelisk in the distance. His eyes start to well up as they take in those familiar sights, filling his heart with a soothing warmth of which it had lost the feel.

Fury is silent, respecting this rekindling moment.

The doors of the elevator open far too soon, forcing him out of his reverie. There is a long, grey hall ahead. A man in a white gown soon appears and leads the way to a medical room.

"I will see you again very soon," Fury says, before leaving him.

* * *

After a few hours, the door opens and the woman with the dark hair comes standing in her black catsuit. He finds the sight oddly familiar.

After receiving a nod from one of the doctors, she gently steps forward.

"My name is Maria Hill," she begins with a warm but professional voice. "Colonel Fury has asked to ensure that you feel welcome and quickly find your bearings."

He nods.

"If you would like to follow me," she says.

They leave the medical room, to the long hall again.

She takes him a few stories down to another room. It has been accommodated as apartments. Another feeling of déjà vu.

"There is a bathroom and a bed if you would like some rest."

Without stepping inside, he turns to look at her.

"I presume Colonel Fury and other people want to ask me questions," he says coolly.

Agent Hill seems taken by surprise. "Let's just get over with now, then. Just give me ten minutes."

He then goes inside for a quick shower.

The interrogation goes smoothly. There are mostly questions he has few answers for: the facility he was locked in and its location, the men in charge, their intentions, the missions he went through with them.

Their answers are just as brief. And vaguer. Especially when it comes to Natasha. Their conniving glances and their muteness tell him all he needs to know. And it is that they have no intention of letting her out of their grip anytime soon.

They keep calling her a criminal. And although he knows that perfectly well, he wishes they could begin to listen to the part when he calls her his savior.

The meeting drags on just as he expected it would. It is the middle of the afternoon when all the men in suits or military uniforms stand up.

"I will ask agent Hill to take you to your room and have someone bring you a good meal. I will make sure to have an apartment made available for you from tomorrow," Fury says after they have left the room.

His heartbeat quickens slightly.

"Colonel," he answers gravely. "I don't want my first night back here to be in a military facility. Actually, I never want to have to spend another night in one ever again."

Fury looks him in the eyes and nods.

"I understand, Captain. You are free, now. I will make all the arrangements for tonight."

"Thank you," he says from the bottom of his heart.

A couple of hours later, agent Hill drives him to a block in a quiet street not so far from downtown. She asks him if there is anything else she can do for him and he answers no.

As soon as her SUV pulls away, he goes back out and strolls along the streets with a racing heart. He tries to explore as many areas as possible while allowing himself to take his time. He stops in an Asian restaurant and buys food with the cash left at his disposition, eating from the counter and looking out the window.

It is dark outside and all the lights are on, shining like beacons. He follows their trails and mingles with the population, in a quiet attempt to belong. But they do not see him.

He goes to the Monument and coolly stands under it for some time.

Eventually, when darkness is veiled with the falling silence, he monotonously makes his way back to the apartment block, drops the key on the table and sits on the bed.

Exhaustion coupled with the sheer relief of having returned to his homeland take soft hold of him and he falls sound asleep.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, devoid of fatigue, and stares blankly out of the window. Looking at the endless skyline afar, he wonders if Natasha is allowed any exterior view at all.

He doesn't need to wonder how she is feeling — he knows already. And he doesn't doubt she is awake at this moment.

He simply wishes he were there with her to keep her company as she did for him.

And he does not find sleep again.


	16. Chapter 15

The sun has been long up when agent Hill rings up the landline in the apartment to let him know she is waiting downstairs.

She says she came late because he might have wanted to have proper rest. Natasha would have known he did not sleep half of the night, he thinks. She always knows.

The ride to SHIELD's headquarters is silent. He is already thinking about when he will see Natasha.

Once inside the building, agent Hill tells him that he is free to go wherever he wants, like the gym, the swimming pool and the other facilities; or he can go and consult the archives should he want to find anyone from his past.

Somehow, he can only think about that one person from the present.

"How about N…Romanoff?" he asks. "Where is she?"

Agent Hill remains collected. "I'm afraid this is classified, Captain Rogers."

He frowns. "What do you mean classified? She came here with me. We arrived together. I should know what is going on."

Hill nods with an understanding look and clears her throat while slightly shaking her head. She is not going to yield, he can tell.

"Thank you, Agent Hill. I'll take it from here," Fury calls from the door. Steve looks daggers at him

She readily welcomes his instructions and departs the room. Fury calmly walks in under the close and distrustful look of the guest.

"Where is she?" he asks again. "When can I see her?"

Fury takes a deep breath in, stalling. "You can't. And yesterday you would have received a completely different answer."

"Why? What happened?" Steve asks.

"She tried to escape early this morning."

Steve probes him. "Can you blame her? I saw the way you treated her like yesterday, like…"

"Like a criminal, Captain. You might want to keep that in mind," Fury cuts him in. "As for your questionable sympathy, I do not share it. She knocked down four of my agents, two of which are in the infirmary with broken bones."

Steve looks away and sighs. He folds his arms over his chest. "She would have done worse if her true intention was to harm them," he mutters.

"Well her dubious methods clearly serve dubious intentions. Security has been reinforced."

"What does it mean?"

"The Black Widow has been put in confinement until her hearing next week. She cannot see anyone, let alone receive visitors."

His pupils quiver and he feels a sudden surge of panic from what remains a recent trauma of his own. He looks Fury steadily in the eyes.

"You can't keep her locked up in a cage like an animal. Nobody deserves this."

Fury is imperturbable. "I understand why you would personally feel strongly against it — I really do, Captain. But it is my responsibility to keep everybody safe. She remains in confinement for now."

But how long is now?

* * *

The days go by at a slow pace. His days mostly consist of trying to pass the time with various activities. He goes to the gym a lot to let off steam. He reads his old companions' files over and over. He cannot see Peggy yet — she is currently in London, but her family said she would come to the US soon for a visit. But it is not until a couple of months.

He goes to New York for a couple of days and treads the streets he treaded 70 years ago. He walks around Brooklyn and soon, around the corner, finds his home. He eventually musters the courage to knock on the door of the apartment and asks if he can have a quick look. The new lodger agrees. But nothing is the same anymore. The walls have been painted again and the carpentry has been changed. Even the creaking floor no longer creaks under his foot: it has been replaced too. He comes out sooner than he expected and rather watch it from the sidewalk — at least then, the outside looks the same.

A child running past him and brings along a wave of memories — mostly of him and Bucky playing baseball on the road on summer days.

His and his mother's favorite coffee shop is still a block down but it has become an organic juice and smoothie bar. The wide window with a view on the Bridge is still there, though. He orders a drink and sits on the high stool. He stays there all day, and with a pen, he even doodles the bridge skeleton on the compostable paper napkin.

Maybe this afternoon out would have been more enjoyable if he had Natasha to keep him company. He would have told her the dozen anecdotes and memories that every street corner harbor.

And she would have listened he is sure.

* * *

Back from his short trip to New York City, he barges in Fury's office. He stands before his desk.

"Let me see her," he says. "It's been a week. You can't keep her confined forever."

"That is not my decision to make. I am following orders from superiors."

"Let me talk to them," he says loudly after a pause.

"That will not be possible."

"I am _done_ doing things your way," he yells as he tosses the item standing on the desk across the room. It crashes on the floor is followed by silence. Fury eyes him coolly. Steve is gazing at the object on the floor.

"All right, Captain," he says before calling an agent in. "Take him to see Romanoff in confinement."

The man nods and goes to wait outside the office.

"You have twenty minutes," Fury says.

Steve finally diverts his eyes back on him.

"Whoever is behind this is wrong," he says. "It's only making it worse. Natasha betrayed her superiors to let me out. You could choose to make her an ally but you didn't."

"That is not your judgment to make," Fury says.

Steve holds up his gaze then leaves the room.

* * *

They walk along a dozen of corridors before reaching a hall with blindingly bright lights. Two agents armed heavily are guarding a door. They don't seem surprised to see them as if they have already been informed. Steve reaches for the hand and takes a deep breath in. He somehow dreads what he will find on the other side.

Inside is a naked room with high white walls, a table and two chairs in the center. Nothing else.

Natasha is sitting on the chair across. She looks up with a groggy and worn-out expression, dark circles smeared under her eyes. She seems to expect another lengthy interrogation.

She blinks upon seeing him instead.

"Steve?" she murmurs.

He nods and comes to sit on the chair across. He wants to move it over to her but the legs are screwed into the floor, so is the table.

"How are you?" she asks.

He snorts sadly. "How am I?" he repeats, sniffing as he tries to conceal his emotions. "It doesn't matter."

She eyes him with a slightly dubious expression. "I thought that after what happened in Saint Petersburg, you may not want to see me again."

He shakes his head. "Of course not. I understand now why you wanted to leave." He glances around the room. "The way they're treating you here, it's sickening. I'm sorry." He looks up at her, into her eyes, beyond her dark circles and the weariness in her eyes. He realizes he didn't try enough to help her. He hasn't done enough. "I'm sorry," he repeats.

Natasha watches him dumbfoundedly. "I know it's not you."

He reaches for her fingers and squeezes them in his palms. "You were right," he says. "The governments and their leaders. They all serve agendas."

"You shouldn't care," she remarks with a stunned look. "Why do you care?"

Her voice breaks a little. It seems it is a concept she cannot comprehend.

"I care," he answers. "That's why I'm here today."

She laughs quietly. "This might be Stockholm syndrome," she says playful smirk.

"It's not," he answers matter-of-factly. "I was never scared of you."

She arches an eyebrow. "Looks like I'm in the wrong business."

They both smile. It would almost feel like everything is normal — but nothing is.

"At least you're home. I'm glad you're home," she whispers.

He kisses her hands, and again. "I'll get you out of here, I promise."


	17. Final chapter

**Author's note**: This is it, guys — the final chapter. I hope you'll enjoy it. Thank you for all the lovely comments I've received.

* * *

The hearing commences the following week, but Steve is not called to testify until the third day.

Waiting in a wide corridor, he leans on the wall, nervously tapping his forefinger against the side of his thigh.

He is wearing his official military suit — one that he hasn't worn since 1944. The cut is different, more modern, but these are finally familiar clothes he is comfortable in.

The large black doors open in front of him and he is invited in. He stands up properly, readjusts the uniform and makes his way in. This looks nothing like a public trial: no audience, media or jury. Natasha is seated on a table with armed agents in position in every corner of the room. Colonel Fury is sitting aside, watching aloof. Ahead, there is a large bench towering over, with three people waiting with stern expressions. A tall man with grey hair and thin and sharp facial features, another with a round face and small eyes piercing through rectangle glasses and a woman, slightly older, with dark blond hair tied up in a neat bun.

He stops to stand before them, trying to keep his eyes from darting in her direction.

"Captain Steven Rogers," the tall man at the center begins. "Thank you for coming today. Like in any court, and as a witness, you are to expected to answer all the questions truthfully. Is that understood?"

He nods and then he is invited to sit.

"How did you meet Natasha Romanoff?" the man with the glasses starts it off.

"She was in the Russian facility where I was locked up for three months. She was in charge of liaising between me and her superiors," he answers.

He looks at her and finds her staring back.

"Is it wrong to say she was also in charge of your induction into extra-governmental missions?" another asks.

He nods. "It's correct. As per Colonel Petranov's orders."

The triumvirate seems to dismiss his comment as superfluous.

"I would have supposed you are here to share your testimony of the cruel treatment you received from Natasha Romanoff during your captivity," the man with the glasses continues while flipping through pages, "but the report I have here suggests you are here to testify in her favor. Am I reading it right?"

"Yes," he answers. "I am here to bring in new facts that might certainly differ from what you have in your files."

The three judges glance at one another. "We are listening, Captain Rogers."

Steve turns to look at Natasha again. She is watching intently.

"Agent Romanoff was everything that you mentioned earlier but not only," he begins. "She helped me."

"But you were her prisoner, weren't you?" the woman asks.

He presses his lips together but doesn't detach his eyes from her. "I thought so at first," he says quietly with wavering pupils, "until I realized she was, too. Not the blatant type like I was — more insidious and cruel. I wouldn't have escaped without her. She broke free — turned against her own people — and she let me out."

"So you ran away together?" the tall man asks.

"Yes. She's the one who took us to St Petersburg."

The triumvirate shares silent looks again.

"With all due respect, Captain — and I do not mean to belittle your judgment — but didn't it occur to you that all this might have been staged?" the woman asks. "A ploy put in place along with Colonel Petranov so she could earn your trust?"

He frowns. "No," he demurs.

"Did you see Colonel Petranov during your escape? Did you physically see her neutralize one of her teammates to help you out?"

"I didn't but that doesn't…"

"Did you come across any agents on your journey across the tundra? I find it difficult to believe that you could go unnoticed in such strenuous circumstances."

"She grew up there. She knew the place better than anyone," he defends.

"So she outsmarted everyone?" the man with the glasses chimes in with irony.

Natasha glances down at the table with a resigned expression. Fury is sitting cross-legged in silence.

"We were attacked on the train and at the station," Steve protests. "And she did not hesitate to neutralize them."

The three judges shrug it off. "They could have been collateral damage — a little sacrifice for her to go through with her mission. For all we know they might have been rival agents from another intelligence agency."

He shakes his head. None of it makes sense and they would know if they had been there with them, or if they were not so determined to make Natasha their scapegoat to satisfy some personal sense of justice.

"If you truly seek to achieve justice and to charge someone who is guilty, you don't have the right person. You should be going after Petranov. Romanoff followed orders until the day she stopped."

"Except Natasha Romanoff is also responsible for her own crimes. Did you read her files?"

Someone had indeed made sure to hand him in some of them. He read some of them, and then he stopped. He did not have to read every single thing she did to have an idea of her criminal past. He's always known.

"I recognize a victim when I see one. And I cannot pretend to look away once I have. I know what she has done but I also know she was never given a choice. And she finally took it a couple of weeks ago when she ran away with me."

He looks at Natasha intently. And he realizes this trial has been the occasion to tell her what he thinks about her. Something she never heard him say — and that she may have never heard anybody say.

When he looks at her, he doesn't really see the Black Widow anymore — although she is there —, he sees Natasha.

The forsaken little girl in the tundra.

The former ballerina.

The prisoner.

The survivor.

He hopes she can see all this in his eyes. And it seems she does; her eyes filled with gratitude.

The tall man clears his throat. "Captain Rogers, are you in love with Natasha Romanoff?"

Slightly startled, he turns to look at the judge, then glances back at Natasha. She is eyeing him with her mouth slightly open, and she takes a deep breath in.

The answer is obvious. And he turns to the judge again.

"I am not," he answers. "I am simply telling things as I have seen them without any prejudices clouding my judgment. As you said yourselves, I was a prisoner there: I should have every reason to want her to be punished. The fact I don't proves she is not all that she seems in this courtroom. She could become something else…if you let her."

"The world has changed in seventy years, Captain Rogers. It cannot be built on good sentiments anymore," the man with the glasses comments.

"I am well aware. I fought the Nazis."

The room grows heavily silent. The triumvirate looks at each other, while Fury eyes every person in the room from his dark corner.

The judges thank Steve for his testimony and he walks out. He is not sure he has made a difference but he is glad he could be the dissident voice in this room.

* * *

A few days later, Steve is alone in the apartment, browsing the internet. He doesn't know if he will ever be allowed to see Natasha again but he fears she will soon be transferred out of the SHIELD headquarters.

He hears a knock at the door. He goes to open and Colonel Fury walks in. He hasn't seen him since he gave he spoke at the hearing.

The Colonel is his usual stern self although his demeanor is a little less rigid than unusual.

"The hearing is over," he starts. Steve trails off. "To be more specific, it was aborted."

Steve furrows his brows. "Why?"

"I had a frank conversation with a higher authority than the triumvirate and the trial was called off. The charges have been dropped."

Steve is befuddled. "Why?"

Fury sits on the chair in front of him. "Because I thought of what you told me the other day in my office. She is a strong asset and we could be smart and choose to make her an ally…if she proves she wants to be one."

"So, she is free?"

"Not exactly. She is not allowed out of the country nor can she ever disappear off the radar."

Steve eyes him inquisitively. "Why are you trusting her?"

"I am trusting you, Captain."

Natasha is let out of confinement the same day but isn't allowed to leave the headquarters until a few weeks later after all the counselors and other experts have approved of it.

When she steps out of the building for the first time, on a sunny day, she finds Steve waiting outside, standing by his motorcycle.

She smiles. "Anything you'd like to do today to celebrate?" he asks. The light-heartedness makes them forget she is to report back in 36 hours.

She glances over at his motorcycle then back at him, and a smirk rises on her lips. "How about you show me Brooklyn?"

Walking along the streets of Brooklyn, he doesn't feel lonely anymore. She helps him to blend in with the other passersby. He forgets to be self-conscious over not belonging completely.

Their slow and carefree stroll contrasts completely with their run through the tundra.

After their stroll, they sit on a bench by the river, she looking at the Manhattan skyline and him gazing at her. After a short while, he clears his throat.

"What I answered the other day in court…," he starts. He glances at the surface of the water shimmering under the sun rays, then back at her. "I didn't mean it."

Yes, he lied. He had to if he wanted his testimony to be taken seriously for he did mean everything he said regardless of the nature of his feelings.

It was a small lie to protect a far greater truth.

He does not wait for an answer — he knows Natasha is not the loquacious type.

Natasha eyes him closely. Then, she smiles. "And I thought you were a terrible liar."

Back to his apartment, they brazenly tear off each other's clothes, mutually yearning for the other's touch. They drop on the bed and she takes the lead.

After love, she collapses on his chest, breathing heavily in the crook of his neck, his hands around her waist. He knows the curves of her body in every detail, and his fingers gently trace along its silhouette while she kisses his collarbone.

After a few seconds, she arches her back and leans over him, her face hovering a few inches above his. He brings his hand up and delicately brushes her hair off her flushed face. She laughs — he hasn't heard her laugh for too long — and plants a kiss on his lips.

Their panting decreases and soon, he stares into her mesmerizing green eyes. He shouldn't but he's already thinking about her curfew. "Nat," he murmurs softly, gazing up at her, suddenly more grave. "If you don't want to stay here and live this life, I'll help you out."

As painful as it would be, he could live without her and face the consequences of his action if it can aid her to be free. She, more than anyone, should be free.

He waits without a word — he wants her to understand that he would break the rules and accept to be seen as a criminal and a traitor by his own motherland for what he believes is right. For her.

Natasha stares down at him with an unreadable expression. She knows he means it: he would do for her what she did for him.

The moonlight falls upon her bare back; her emerald eyes are delving into his.

"I don't want to be anywhere else," she murmurs back. "I don't want to run."

Her lips graze his again, more ardently, and she deepens the kiss. He flips them over and the night stretches on.

* * *

Working out in his local gym in the evening, Steve hits the punching bag methodically. Fury walks in and makes his presence known. He is holding a file.

Steve removes his hand wraps.

"You here with a mission, sir?" he asks. It doesn't come as a surprise — Fury has hinted at it many times.

"I am," he says.

"Trying to get me back in the world?" he comments.

"Trying to save it."

He hands him the open file with a picture of the Tesseract and pitches him about the situation.

"There's a briefing packet waiting for you back at your apartment," he finishes.

Steve takes a breath in. It is something he has been waiting to do for some time, now.

"If you want to take this Loki down, you're gonna need a team," he says.

Fury probes him with an expectant look. "Indeed."

Steve closes the file.

"I know someone."


End file.
